Feel Again
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Isobel's thoughts following the events of One More Morning, Chapter 9. Yet another piece of the modern Richobel retirement AU puzzle; this is "The One Where Matthew Doesn't Die." ***Strong M***
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ummm ... what to say about this piece? Isobel and Richard made me do it? In all seriousness they did finally become lovers in _One More Morning,_ which was a necessary installment in the retirement AU because it delves into the backstory behind some of the events that take place in _Sweet Seasons._ Then, while I was away a few weeks ago, I kept thinking that there needed to be an exploration of Isobel's headspace after they went to bed together. I sat beside the crashing ocean and heard wisps of it in my head, being told from her point of view. And what about that? Well, I'll just say that I was away from my husband for nine days and nights and my imagination ran away with me(?). There'll most likely be an epilogue to this coming before too long, though we are back into homeschool full swing now so my time is very, VERY limited. At any rate, I hope you enjoy. **

**xx,**  
 **~ejb~**

* * *

I was frightened the first time I woke up beside him. To be sure, I had indeed invited him to share my bed, something I would not likely have done but for having drunk half a bottle of wine and just coming off a days-long stint at the hospital. I don't think I'd have had the nerve to say the words, but under the circumstances I'd dropped off to sleep in his arms on the loveseat out on the balcony, hazily mumbling something along the lines of "Let's go to bed" when he nudged me awake.

I don't sleep, as a rule, or at least I hadn't done since Reg died. The bed had always proved too big and too empty, the night unbearably long, the whole scenario a reminder of all I'd had … and lost. I had taken to dossing down on the couch in my office most nights, the quiet there preferable to that of the physicians' lounge. I'd work until my eyes refused to stay propped open and then toss and turn until the clock displayed an acceptable hour at which to shower and dress. The perks of department headship, I suppose: a private _en suite._ On the nights I had to be at home, I'd settle down on the sofa with _Air Crash Investigation_ or one travel documentary or another and on a good night I might manage three hours' sleep.

So imagine my surprise when I awakened in the bedroom of my flat, in the bed I'd come to despise, after having slept a full eight hours. Now picture my bewilderment at finding a solid male presence beside me, behind me, his arm slung round my waist. I was frozen in place, trying to work out whether to dive for the mobile and dial 999, when I'd felt the movement of his thumb drawing circles on my hip and I'd smiled, turning over to face him.

 _Richard. Oh, Richard._ In an instant, trepidation and uncertainty were replaced by a feeling which I can only liken to having been falling one moment, flailing, hurtling towards destruction and then suddenly being caught up; rescued, drawn close the next. That sounds terribly melodramatic and hopelessly romantic and I've never been given to such notions before, but do you know something?

It is most certainly dramatic. And unquestionably romantic. _And I love it._

I'd been on my own for so long when we met that I kept him at arm's length for a long time. It was instinct, purely unintentional. Self-preservation was my means of survival, and I never had to say it to him. He understood somehow, and accepted what I gave with grace and gratitude, never pushing past the walls I'd built around my heart while somehow simultaneously, wordlessly challenging me to look beyond them. I don't know whether he knew before I did that Isobel was in there somewhere, buried beneath defence mechanisms and deferred grief. I suspect so, knowing him as I do now. Or perhaps he was taking a huge risk, showing such love and care to someone he couldn't be sure would ever return those feelings. That's rather like him as well.

Whatever his motivation, it's certainly paying dividends now. I am his.

Is it strange to read those words coming from me? It is from my end, make no mistake. If my upbringing as a physician's daughter determined to blaze her own trail in medicine had taught me anything, it was that I belonged to no one but myself. I never wanted to garner favour as the daughter or the sister of a Dr. Turnbull. In fact, it was that bull-headed stubbornness that apparently attracted Reg to me, or so he liked to say. And I wasn't about to be known professionally as "Dr. Crawley's wife" either, though nothing's ever thrilled me more in my private life than being exactly that. But you see, that's just it. Reg never sought to tame the independence out of me, and therefore I was delighted to do life beside him, ever his champion just as he was mine.

Just as Richard _is_ mine; I am his. I never held my heart away from him because I didn't love him; in fact, it was much to the contrary. I knew from the time of our first meeting that he was going to become a close friend, and by the time he took over as Chief of Neonatology at St. Mary's my heart had set its affections upon him. No, indeed; it was fear that had kept me from admitting my love for Richard. I had to somehow reconcile that loving him was not synonymous with betraying Reg's memory. And I couldn't allow my feelings to take root without first being completely forthright with Richard. You see, as deeply in love with him as I am, there will never come a day, so long as there is breath in my lungs, that I do not love Reginald. Had we two not been separated by his senseless death, we would be celebrating our fortieth wedding anniversary this year. I felt surely that my devotion to him, even after spending as many years widowed as we were married, would put Richard off me, but I should have known that he'd make it safe for me. That's what he has always been: a safe haven. The one and only place I can be entirely myself; where my imperfections are no surprise. Where I can love two men simultaneously.

"I don't for a moment believe that one love must end because another has begun, sweet girl," he had told me, and in those words I found freedom.

If it is hard for him (and I would think it _has_ to be), he doesn't let it show. He has been my friend for so long that I would know if he were holding back, but he continues to love me with the utmost kindness and devotion and I know, _I know,_ though we are yet to discuss it, that his past and my own are not very disparate. All he has said is that he was engaged once, just out of medical school, and that the wedding didn't go forward. Whatever details he hasn't shared, I'm confident that it isn't because he's withholding something I need to know. I suspect that there is still a great deal of affection in his heart for his fiancée, and in that regard we are both learning to hold fast to first love while concurrently moving on.

He is not the only one with stories left untold. I shared with him — because I _had_ to before we made love for the first time — that I'd had a hysterectomy after Reg died. I'd come a very long way by that point, from absolute certainty that I'd never so much look at another man after losing my husband to the solace of knowing that Richard has my whole heart for the rest of my life, and therefore giving my body to him was the natural extension of the love we share. And he'd been so tender, almost reverent, that I'd nearly let it slip. But the timing was all wrong; while I did indeed shed many tears that morning, I was not going to allow the pervasive, creeping sorrow over losing my daughter to intrude upon the joy of intimacy found once again. And she's the last secret, is my little girl, that Reg and I ever shared. I cannot quite explain why it's so important to me to guard that knowledge for just a while longer, but it's as I've said: I am in love with two men. Theorise away about how you'd handle yourself in the same situation, but you'll never truly know until it happens to you. And no one hopes any harder than I do that you never, ever find yourself in my position.

Here is the thing though: I want Richard to know about Fiona. I want to be able to hide in him when I miss her, and to speak of who she might have become. I want to tell him because when he knows, he will thereby know everything about me, and I want nothing so much as to be known by him. Even when the things he tells me are hard to hear, they are precisely what I need. Even when I am unlovable, he loves me.

I told him that I wouldn't ask him to move in with me. Modern woman though I am, there are enough of the old ways in me that I can't quite work out where I stand with all of that. Domestic partnership and "living in sin" and sex outside of the confines of marriage. For reasons unknown to me I feel it's more acceptable for the younger generation than it is my own, though I still can't say I condone it. Clearly I'm not bothered enough that it has kept me from loving Richard, but I absolutely _despise_ the implication that there are illicit overtones to anything we do together.

I told him that I wouldn't ask him to move in with me because we've each of us lived a lifetime alone, and I never want him to feel smothered or like he's losing his own identity. I said, "Come and go as you please," even as I meant _I've been alone for so bloody long and I never want you to leave but I don't want to overwhelm you._ But once we had made love it was as if by some unspoken mutual understanding our lives became interwoven all of their own accord, and we've yet to spend a night apart since then that hasn't been necessitated by our work.

We speak of marriage in vague terms, and I know it's got much to do with his having all but proposed once, when he was rather squiffy, and my not having recognised it as such until well after the fact. I'd failed at handling his heart with the care it deserved, even if we'd yet to admit we loved one another at that juncture. It was not our finest moment, that. But I feel we are close upon the subject coming to the forefront again, and as I told him before I took him as my lover, there is no turning back now. I would not open my heart, my arms, my bed to him if I didn't intend upon permanency. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but experience has taught me that sharing one's body is the ultimate expression of intimacy and for me, anyway, it is sacred.

 **oOo**

"Hello, darling." Richard breaks my train of thought, pushing open the half-closed bathroom door. Steam rises from the bath as cold air intrudes upon the warm damp and I cringe.

"Close that, will you please?" He does, and then turns back to me, sitting down on the edge of the tub. I greet him properly. "Hi, love. Plenty of room for you."

"I rather fancy the view from here," he says, leaning in to close the distance between us. I will never tire of this: the intensity in his eyes, and how I can always tell he's going to kiss me by the way he stares at my mouth beforehand. That little anticipatory hitch in my breath, the way his warmth precedes the brush of his lips against mine. The rush of blood pounding in my ears, the flutter in my belly. All of these things I'd long believed were gone from me. And then, suddenly, he was mine.

"Richard." His name trips readily off my tongue in between kisses. I sound wanton to my own ears and there was a time, at the start of things, when I worried about that, whether he would be put off. Imagine my delight at finding that nothing could be further from the truth.

I watch as he rolls his shirtsleeves to the elbows. The movement of muscle and sinew in his forearms; his long, slender fingers manipulating the fabric. He was in meetings for most of the day today. Glad-handing the donors, the finance committee. The stuff of his nightmares, and I know he's craving the chance to be quiet now, to be still. Shame I spent most of the day in theatre; I missed the sight of him in coat and tie. But this is better by leaps and bounds.

He kneels beside the bathtub and I will myself to keep my eyes open. My instinct is to close them in advance of his touch, but the thrill of watching him wins out.

"I love you," I tell him as his hands disappear beneath the bubbles. I gasp as the tips of his fingers dance across my rib cage. I knew it was coming, but the thrill never dies.

"Isobel," he sighs as his hands settle at my waist. He leans over me to bury his face in my neck, his lips seeking the pulse point there. He is a treasure, and never more so than in moments like this. How humbling it is, and what a gift: he trusts me with his vulnerability. My heart threatens to beat its way out of my chest at the thought of what's to come, but already, _this_ is intimacy. His hand is on my breast and my back arches of its own volition, dying to press in closer, to take my pleasure. But there is a balance to be struck here. Yes, I want him. I _ache_ with it, my pulse beating a mantra of _Love me, fill me, take me,_ and if I took control now I know he would graciously give it to me. But I want to be his safe harbour, to receive the priceless gift of love as he gives it. _This is marriage,_ I think as I run a damp hand through his hair. He's never spoken of numbers, of how many before me, except to say there have been few. Beautiful as he is a part of me finds that hard to believe, but scrupulous as he is I know it is truth. But he does not need to tell me that it is only I who have seen him like this, and I do not need a legal document to tell me that we are set apart, he and I; each one only for the other. In my heart and soul, in all the ways that matter, we are wed.

"I'm here, my darling." _My husband,_ my heart wants to say.

He draws back to look at me and I watch as his eyes travel over my body from head to toe. "Christ, you're beautiful," he tells me. The wonderment with which he says it causes me to choke back a sob. He is my redemption song after a lifetime spent mourning the loss of this.

His touch, at first, is as if he is fingering the pages of a favourite novel, checking to see all the words are still there.

I hear the unasked questions in his focused gaze, the roving of his fingertips. _You're here? You're mine? You love me?_

"I'm here," I repeat, dropping kisses on his forehead. "I'm here with you, Richard. I'm yours."

Later, after we lie together and after he sleeps and perhaps after a curry and pint of Old Engine Oil (delightful, incidentally, in spite of the dubious moniker) at the Indian place round the corner, he'll tell me what's rankled him so. I suspect it's something to do with being made to kowtow to Dickie Grey and his awful son Larry. I am in complete agreement with Richard as it pertains to Larry and every unsavoury adjective ever applied to the man, but where Dickie is concerned I just have to roll my eyes. The notion that Richard sees him as a threat to our relationship is truly, utterly laughable. Dickie is congenial enough; he's a lonely old widower, and on that count I can relate. But therein lies the beginning and end of any commonality between us.

There is absolutely no comparison between the two men, and the mention of Dickie's name has no place in our bedroom (or our bathroom, as the case may be). "It's only you for me," I tell Richard. "You're the one I want here," as I draw him down to my mouth and kiss him, "and here," as I take his hand, pressing it to my heart, "and _here,"_ as I bring our hands to rest at the apex of my thighs.

His eyes are dark as he fixes them on mine. He never needs permission, but still he always asks. "Isobel …"

My hand atop his own squeezes his fingers. "Darling."

Wild blue-black eyes again, and his palms sliding over the tops of my thighs. He brushes his lips against each kneecap, and his moustache tickles. "Open for me."

I don't even try to stifle the moan that escapes my lips at his forthrightness, and I watch his eyes as my knees fall open. I am wet, and not just from the bath.

I grin as he raises an eyebrow at me. "Is this the way you wanted me to find you?" he asks, feathering his fingertips along my inner thighs, making the muscles twitch.

I would tease if I wasn't so far gone already, and he was not so obviously in need of affirmation. And so I take the straightforward approach. "I thought about you all day." It's all I need to say. He knows.

He touches me so gently, _just there,_ tiny flicks of his thumb that make me clench. Once again I fight to keep my eyes open, to watch him. This is decadent, wanton, exhilarating. If I'm thinking at all, it is something along the lines of _Oh God, ohgod, inside, please!_ and, _He's so beautiful, and he wants_ _ **me!**_ Blood rushes to my head, swollen damp at my centre, his strokes lengthening in response. My hips rock into his hand.

"Easy," he murmurs, "breathe." He ceases the movement of his fingers, pressing his open palm against me firmly. Slowing me down; holding me there. "Look at you," he whispers, raw and thick with emotion as I hang suspended on the edge of euphoria. "Isobel."

"Richard …" It comes out strangled as I fight for breath.

"Beauty," he proclaims, slipping his fingers inside slowly, steadily.

I bite my lip hard. _Not yet;_ my internal reminder. _Notyetnotyet ohjesus_ as he presses up, _theretherethere_ and I'm gone.

The duration of the average female orgasm is eight seconds. I've recited this fact to my patients more times than I could ever count. How, then, is it possible to feel an entire lifetime's worth of sensations and emotions in less time than it takes to blink twice? It's the ultimate reward for complete and total vulnerability. I've never been able to understand why anyone would want to do this with someone unless there was love and trust present, but my _God,_ when there is! _I never did believe in miracles, but I've a feeling it's time to try*._ It's a very strange time to think of a Fleetwood Mac song, but it's far less clichéd than most other attempts at explaining the phenomenon.

I am shaking when it's over, and I need to be held. He helps me to my feet and wraps me up, first in the bath towel and then in his arms. I lean into him as he kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. I watch, captivated, as he works the towel over my skin.

"Turn," he commands, and when I do I feel his lips brush against the top of my spine. He kisses each of my vertebrae on the way down as he dries, and I think that I can hear him naming them off in his head. He repeats the action on the return journey, sucking on my neck. "I need to feel you, sweet girl," he breathes, scraping his teeth along my earlobe.

"Come," I tell him, and he drops the towel as I take his hand. I turn down the covers on my side of the bed as he watches, and when he finishes with his side I stand before him. I'm certain that his tie is slung over the gear lever in the Rover, and it makes me smile as I reach up to caress the patch of skin at the base of his throat where the topmost button is open. "I wish I'd got to see you earlier," I tell him, leaning in to kiss that spot.

He holds my head in place for a moment, and when he moans I can feel it against my lips. "I still don't understand why you're so fond of seeing me with a tie on."

Straightening, I step up to whisper in his ear as his arms come around me, his hands pressing my hips into him. "I fancy taking them _off_ of you."

He grins in response and growls, bending to kiss my neck and tickling me with his stubble. I shriek with laughter and pull him to my mouth, kissing him hard.

"Oh, my girl," he sighs as the kiss breaks, "I do love you."

"And I love you, though you have entirely too many clothes on at the moment." I flirt a little, since his mood is lightening. I never knew I still had it in me! Love is, indeed, a many-splendoured thing.

"Are you planning to do something about that?" He returns my serve and my knees go weak. I am powerless against that lilt of his.

"Jesus," I mutter, "you're wicked, you know. Now keep still."

He grins again, a flash of something impish in his eyes. "I promise I'll behave," he murmurs, hot breath against my neck that causes me to lose my balance momentarily as I lean in to open the next of his buttons. I curse him under my breath even as my belly tightens at the feel of his hands on the bare skin of my waist, ostensibly steadying me. I am fast becoming drunk on the nearness of him, his heat and his beauty. He is dark and brooding one moment, rakish and playful the next and the _last_ thing I feel right now is steady.

"Bollocks," I giggle, and so does he. "Dammit," I whisper as I open another button. "Bloody vest." Of course he would have worn one, but it's terribly inconvenient at the moment.

"Patience, Isobel," he says with a smirk. "Some say it's a virtue, you know."

"Yeah, well, it's not one of mine," I tell him as I get the shirt off him at long last. "Arms up."

He lifts his arms as I free the hem of his vest from the waistband of his trousers, undoing the belt, button and zip while I'm there. I press my palms against bare flesh at last, sliding them over his abdomen and ribs, lingering for a moment at his chest and savouring the strangled groan he emits. As I lift his vest over his head and off, he steps out of his trousers, leaving only his shorts and socks. I pause to look at him and he takes my breath away … from the ankles, up. I don't know what comes over me but next thing I know I'm doubled over, giggling like a mad fool and he's stood there, hands on hips and a scowl deeply etched across his brow.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I choke, breathless, the giggles catching me up again. "It's just … your _socks!"_ I truly _don't_ mean to be rude, but there is simply nothing sexy about them.

"Oh, Christ, woman," he huffs, bending to remove them. Just when I begin to worry that he's cross with me, he catches me at the waist and lifts me off my feet, twirling me around. When he stops he holds me there, his hands cradling my bum. "Better now, love?" he rasps, taking my lips in a searing kiss.

"Much," I breathe against his mouth between kisses. He lowers me until I feel the mattress beneath my back. As he follows me down my hands reach for the waistband of his shorts. "Lose them. _Now,"_ I tell him. What has come over me? _You make loving fun*,_ I think, and my God, it's true.

I watch as he kneels above me, unable to stop the "Ohh!" from leaving my lips when at last he is bare before me. "Beautiful," I murmur, holding my arms out to him. I end up laughing even as tears fill my eyes at the feel of it when he presses his body to mine.

"What's this, precious, hmm?" he asks, wiping away a teardrop. "You're alright, aye?"

Smiling, I nod. When I open my mouth to speak my teary voice breaks and we both laugh. "Oh, will you look at me? I'm a hot mess." I lean up to kiss him. "I still can't believe …" Words fail me. "This … Us. I never thought …" Overcome by the strength of my love for him, I find myself sobbing, unable to finish.

He pulls me closer, dropping his head into the crook of my neck. "Hush now, beauty," he soothes, "I know, I know. I love you, Isobel. It's all I know." He is so seldom given to sentimentality that those few words say it all.

We lie together, kissing and touching and breathing as one. He is half hard already when I take his length in my hand, bringing him to rest against my own heat. He hisses and I feel the strain as he tries not to thrust into my hand. We are still new to this, but I think I know what he needs. I push at his shoulders until he raises himself up, and then I turn over to lie on my stomach.

"Isobel!" he gasps, tracing my spine with his fingers.

I look back at him over my shoulder. "It's what you want, isn't it?"

He kneels behind me, tracing absent circles on the backs of my thighs. "It is, but—"

"I want you to," I tell him. "Please, my love."

"I want you to enjoy this." He kneads my lower back, my hips, my bum.

"You've got nothing to worry about there," I breathe, his touch building heat inside me once again.

Slowly he raises me up on my knees, stroking tenderly between my legs. I push my hips back, grinding my bum against his erection. The contact is electrifying. He teases the head of himself at my entrance and presses his palm firmly against me. Dimly I register a strange sound in the room, a high, keening sort of whine, and I realise that it's coming from me. I reach back to grasp his hip. _Please, darling,_ I plead with my eyes. _**So**_ _ready._

The front of his thighs brush against the back of mine and his hips press forward as he enters me. It's painstakingly slow, in part because I know he's afraid of hurting me but also because if he feels anything akin to what I'm feeling, it's not something either of us would relinquish anytime soon. The initial penetration feels so good it's almost unbearable. The stretch, bordering on painful, that turns round in an instant, dissolving into bliss. _We were made for this,_ I think. This way, this deeply, his chest draped over my back.

"Yes, we were," he rasps in affirmation and I realise that I was thinking aloud. He throbs inside me and I feel it. The walls of my sex clench him and we cry out in unison.

I wish that I could manage to do something other than sob when we make love, but I was dead, for all intents and purposes, for twenty years; cast from a life of love and oneness into a yawning abyss of cold grey nothing, devoid of feeling. And now all I can seem to _do_ is feel, and with Richard all the sharp delineations are blurred ‒ between the emotional and physical, present and future; sometimes even pleasure and pain are difficult to distinguish. Where does he begin, and where do I end? I feel it all simultaneously with him, and it's wondrous and terrifying. It's love, and it is the single greatest force in all the universe.

Powerless against it, I sink down onto my chest as he moves me. Is it possible to feel what's inside someone else's heart? Because I sense that I'm feeling not only my love for Richard, but his for me as well. His arm is around my waist, his fingers pressing their shape into my ribs, marking me. His lips etch divine profanities like freckles into my shoulder blades. It is thrilling to know that he thinks of me in these ways, and I think of the looks shared between us now as we pass in the hospital corridors.

 _I know you,_ our hearts whisper, murmur, shout. _I know you inside and out; yesterday, today and forevermore. And I love you. In spite of it all._ _ **Because**_ _of it all._

He slips against a sacred spot inside me and I come without his hands, without my hands. A first for me if ever there was one; cue the tears once more! My orgasm triggers his own and we collapse into a boneless mass of damp skin, heaving chests and quivering limbs. His head is on my breast as I stroke his hair.

"Isobel," he gasps when he's able to speak. "What. Was. _That?"_

"Oh, darling," I laugh-sob, "nothing like that's ever happened to me before."

Lifting his head from my breast, he smooths his hand over it, resting his warm palm over my heart. "Jesus, love." He kisses the tip of my nose. "And you really are alright? I didn't …?"

Grinning, I lean in to kiss him deeply. "Sweetheart, one does not … _come_ like that when one is in pain. The very _last_ thing you did was to hurt me. Do you know how long I've wanted you … that way?" I feel my cheeks colour slightly at this admission. You'd think that an obstetrician would have no difficulty talking about sex. And I don't, in a clinical setting.

It's Richard's turn to grin, and how I love that mischievous twinkle in his eye when he does! "Do you have any idea how pretty you are when you blush?" He smooths the backs of his fingers across my cheek. His eyes turn grey and serious. "Thank you, my darling, for knowing how I needed you."

Talking of blurred lines, it seems to have become unacceptable societally in recent days for a man to need a woman sexually. Women are empowered to take what they need from men and I don't disagree (though I don't agree with taking it to extremes). But when a man has a woman who loves him, why should he be shamed for expressing his need of her?

"Richard," I tell him, taking his chin between my thumb and forefinger. Making sure he hears me. "I am _yours,_ my love. Always. You need never ask, alright? And never, ever doubt that I love you."

"I know it, Isobel." Possibly the sweetest words I have ever heard him say. Then he smiles, fully, and the moment becomes sweeter still. "For the first time ever, I know that I am loved."

I was a divinity student once, if you can believe it. One of the things I love best about being English is the Church's high view of women. Somewhere between pursuing a degree in music performance and taking the decision to become a doctor, I did a year of Hebrew studies. It's a beautiful language, ancient and rich and musical, and certain bits of text have stayed with me all these years. Here now, in bed with Richard after what we have shared, after what he has told me, the words of King Solomon's bride ring in my head:

 _Ani l'dodi v'dodi li._ I am my beloved's; my beloved is mine. The fullness of love, romance, intimacy, reverence and mutuality expressed in four words.**

We drift off to sleep for some hours and I think of the secrets he whispered against my skin. I still remember the shapes of the Hebrew characters, and as I reach out to lay my hand over his heart I trace them there with the tip of my finger.

* * *

 *** - Lyrics are borrowed from "You Make Loving Fun" by Fleetwood Mac, from the _Rumours_ album (1977)**

 **** - Herrnson, Rabbi L. (2015, April 21). _Ani l'Dodi v'Dodi Li-What's In It For Me?_  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well this one didn't come easy. I had nothing, and then more nothing, and then something sort of decent but the syntax was all wonky. And then I thought it wasn't long enough for a chapter, but because of the transitional nature I think it _has_ to stand as a chapter. So here we are.**

 **xx,**  
 **~ejb~**

* * *

I awaken well before Richard does, my mind springing to life while my body begs for more rest. I wish that I could come to this instantaneously when I need to. _Sigh._ The subject _du jour_ is marriage, apparently; one I've studiously avoided since the sudden end of mine. It wasn't all that hard, really; I simply did what I'd been doing in order to avoid all other aspects of mourning my husband's death: I hid behind my work. A niece or nephew is getting married back in Manchester next summer? My brother and sister-in-law are giving a party in celebration of their forty-fifth anniversary? Gosh, dreadfully sorry to miss it but you know how understaffed we are, and babies never stop being born! And it worked. For twenty years it worked brilliantly, because really, who could argue? But you know what they said about the best laid plans.

The chickens have come home to roost of late. I'm getting my just desserts. Insert choice metaphor here; marriage seems to be the word of the day in my world just now. I cannot get away from it.

It all began when Matthew became engaged to Lavinia Swire. Such a darling girl — delicate, and not only in appearance. She is agreeable and accommodating and she'd have been a delight to have as my daughter-in-law. Except for the fact that my son was never in love with her. Oh, he wanted to be. There's no denying he made a valiant effort. But you see the heart wants what it wants, and I'm afraid his heart has been set on Mary Crawley since the first time he laid eyes on her. Lavinia let Matthew go, insisting that it was better that way, after witnessing a moment between Mary and Matthew that they had thought was private.

The fact that Matthew loves Mary means that I would do well to try to see something of what he sees in her. Is it fair to say that she's growing on me? The first time we met I found her abrasive and haughty and entitled. Having known her for several years now I can confidently say that she is all of those things, but it's mostly not her fault. Her father is the Earl of Grantham, her mother an American heiress, and she was raised in the lap of luxury along with her two sisters. I'm not quite sure why she is so much more spoilt than either of them, but perhaps it's something to do with being the eldest. At any rate, there is somewhat more to her, as it turns out. She possesses a wonderfully dry sense of humour, even by English standards, and her command of sarcasm is sublime. And she does seem to have good business sense. Not that my opinion counts for much. Well, it does, and it doesn't. My son is thirty-four years old. I don't suppose he requires my assistance in these matters. We've always been close, and in the years after we lost his father and my mum, there were long stretches where it was just us. So he values my input.

All the same, as it pertains to the feminine company he keeps, there is only so much that I can say before I cross the line between expressing motherly concern and appearing distrustful of Matthew's ability to make sound decisions for himself. It's a little late for all of that anyhow. Matthew has proposed, and Mary has accepted, and they are to be married in May of next year.

In the event all of that wasn't enough to wrap my head around, Richard and I, being department heads, have been invited to attend a wedding that the both of us are dreading like the plague. Dickie Grey does not rank highly on Richard's list of favourite people, and whilst I can tolerate him neither one of us can countenance his sons, particularly Larry, the elder. The aforementioned is set to be wed to a devious, conniving shrew, and their union has got disaster written all over it. It's not an exaggeration; Richard and I have a wager going as to whether they'll make it a year!

In an odd twist of fate, Dickie Grey happens to be Mary's godfather (Yes; apparently England is indeed _that_ small). As such, Mary has been invited to the wedding, along with Matthew by virtue of their engagement. This collision of worlds unsettled me initially. Firstly, the fact that Matthew would be attending eliminated a great many of my excuses. Secondly, while I've been accused of meddling in the business of others before (Though, to be sure, I've never done so without the other party's best interest at heart), when it comes to my own private life I like to keep it just exactly that way — _private._

But the topic of marriage isn't one I want to avoid forever anymore, not as it pertains to myself, anyhow. Every moment with Richard is grace: unexpected, undeserved, and I am beginning to think that it would be nothing short of insultory to the higher powers if I were to deny it as such. Reginald all but ordered me to find love again, and whilst I've never been good at taking orders, he had most certainly earned the right to be so plain-spoken with me, knowing me as only he had ever done.

Why, then, had I held my heart away from Richard for so long? I suppose I believed that whatever capacity I'd been given for love — _romantic_ love, I mean — had been used up with Reginald. Sometime between staying up all hours to help him revise for the UKCAT and holding his head in my lap whilst the heart monitor flatlined, I spent my lifetime supply of love on Reg.

But it's a funny thing, is love. When one loves — and _is loved_ — extraordinarily, the heart's capacity for love in all of its forms increases. New love can take root and grow alongside all of the grief and sorrow, the memories both joyous and heartbreaking, the doubts and insecurities and jealousy and even the guilt at finding bright pockets of happiness amidst the wreckage. The heart can, in fact, accommodate all of those feelings without any one of them cancelling out its perceived opposite.

And bless Richard, with his quiet, steadfast presence by my side all those years. I'm sure that there must have been times he wanted to grab me by the shoulders and shake me and shout, "You're torturing yourself, woman!" But he is exceedingly patient, and he never faltered. And finally I realised that yes, my lifetime supply of love for Reg had been used up, as it was meant to be. He will forever occupy that space in my heart. I love him. Present tense.

And I love Richard. He is not Reginald, and he doesn't have to be. I am as much in love with him as I was with my husband, and I get it now: that's alright. To go one better, it's as it should be. Reg loved me superlatively, and in so doing he granted me the power to take that love and give it freely to others in all respects, and to Richard in particular. I will do it imperfectly, to be sure. But that's the beauty of the thing. Love has room for frailty.

Thank God it does. Richard asked me once, years ago, whether I'd ever consider marrying again. I bungled the whole thing spectacularly by failing to realise precisely what he was saying: _I love you, and if you ever felt like you might love me too, I'd like to be married to you._ My defences went up at the mere mention of the "m" word and I shot him down, not thinking that's what I was doing at all. No; I was flip, and I thought I was being _so_ droll, and in so doing I made a mockery of him at a moment of extreme vulnerability. That he saw his way to forgiving me is nothing short of miraculous. I hope that I've not put him off the prospect of asking me again, because if he did ask I doubt that the words would finish leaving his mouth before I'd say yes and mean it more emphatically than I've ever meant anything in all my life.

 **oOo**

He wakes sometime whilst I'm still mulling all this over, and I am unaware of him watching me until he levers himself up on an elbow and reaches out with the other hand to smooth my furrowed brow. "Have you cracked it yet, darling?" His voice is deliciously raspy and I grin, moving to roll on top of him. Seconds later, however, my brain registers the ache in my hips and thighs.

"I feel like I made love to a bear," I groan. "A very sexy bear, but all the same …"

"Lie down," he tells me, patting the mattress. I sink back down and he is there, his warm hands massaging my lower back, helping to ease the soreness. "Stay there. I'll be right back."

A moment later I hear water running in the bathroom. When he returns he helps me up and into a wonderfully hot bath scented with the bath bubbles he surprised me with last week from L'Occitane. I press a kiss to his forehead in thanks and he leaves me to soak.

After the bath my muscles are far more cooperative, and we sit on the balcony sipping coffee and feeding one another bits of scrambled egg and Scotch pancakes. One of the benefits of taking up with a longtime bachelor is that he knows his way round the kitchen. We linger over our meal and after we've finished eating we move to the loveseat, Richard reclining with his head in my lap. My turn to care for him. I smile in gratitude to the powers of the universe that designed love to work this way.

"So I know that we've both been avoiding the subject," I begin as I stroke his hair, "but that awful Grey wedding is next weekend."

I brace myself for the grumbling that I'm sure is coming, but he surprises me. "I've been thinking about that, and I wonder … Seeing as it's being held at Beningbrough — which is a ridiculously long way to drive just to attend a reception—"

"No bloody kidding," I interject with a roll of my eyes that earns me a kiss.

"Yes, well," he continues, "suppose we were to make lemonade from lemons and stop over at the Newton house for a long weekend?"

"Richard, really?"

"... I mean, knowing you and I we'll be at the bloody reception looking out the windows to check the house is alright anyway. It'd be daft of us _not_ to go."

"Do you mean it?"

"... And we'll need it after the week we've got ahead of us …"

"Hey. Hush." I cut him off with a kiss. "I think it's brilliant. I don't know why it never occurred to me …"

"Are you kidding me?" It's his turn to interrupt. "Isobel, you've yet to take holidays in all the years I've known you!"

"Well I never had a reason to before …" My cheeks flush and I cannot continue.

"Oh, you soft girl," he says affectionately, reaching up to ruffle my hair. "Come 'ere." He sits up and pulls me into his arms. "I'm honoured to be worthy of sharing your life." His hand is soft and warm on my face as he tilts my head up to kiss me.

"I've never been in love like this," I tell him when I'm able to speak. It's changed the entire landscape, has falling for him. "I want _everything_ with you, Richard."

He weaves the fingers of his left hand through mine. "Well then let's lead off with a holiday at Newton. I've already floated the idea past Matthew. He said he and Mary are working in Yorkshire the end of the week and they'll stop for the weekend if we do."

 _He's asked my son along?_ I can't stop smiling. "Well, you've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"It just seemed a pity not to take advantage of something so obvious. Larry Grey may be a knob but you and I have plenty to celebrate."

"Oh my God, I want that as my epitaph!" I choke, hooting with laughter. I catch his hand in mine and kiss it.

Both of us dithered for the longest time about whether to attend this farce of a wedding. We were coming up on the deadline to RSVP when suddenly one evening each of us turned to the other and said, "I'll go if you go." While it gave us a good laugh, it also marked a sizable turning point in our relationship. We've not been hiding the fact that we're together, but we've not made it common knowledge either. It's entirely possible that some of our staff and colleagues have an inkling, but to the best of our knowledge none of the hospital board are yet aware that we are a couple. That will soon change.

It's been delightful hunkering down with Richard, tucking ourselves away from the rest of the world. I never was one to withdraw like we've done, but it really has been thrilling, having this secret that is ours alone, and I find myself wanting more of it. More time together away from it all. I had avoided all thoughts of marriage for so long that it seems strange, but when I think of the future now it always includes Richard, and I can so easily picture us wedded and retired and living in Yorkshire. But I'm getting ahead of myself. First things first; we've got to go public.

 **oOo**

Richard wasn't wrong about the week leading up to our impromptu holiday. He is in theatre for eight hours on Monday after having spent six at his office. I work two 15-hour days between my practice and the office before Tuesday draws to a close. I have to chair a departmental meeting on Wednesday morning and then I am on the clock for twenty-four hours straight. I don't catch more than a passing glimpse of Richard from the time he awakens at 2 am Wednesday for an emergent Caesarean until he picks me up after the shift change on Thursday morning. We leave for Newton from the hospital after stops at the cleaner's to pick up our attire for the wedding reception and the chemist to fill my prescription for Circadin. Richard makes me take it before we leave the car park. He tucks me into the passenger seat of the Rover with a blanket and a kiss. "I don't want to see those pretty eyes open again until we arrive," he tells me.

My head is muzzy, my ears are ringing and I would wager he's being kind about the appearance of my eyes, as they feel like sandpaper. I reach for his hand and he squeezes my fingers. "I'm sorry I'm so useless, love. I promise I'll rally."

He rolls his eyes spectacularly. "Don't be ridiculous. You've been awake for close to forty hours. I don't know how you're holding a conversation right now. _Sleep._ " His tone brooks no argument, but he catches my sidelong glance and adds, "I love you," with a soft smile.

"You're entirely too good to me." I pick up his hand and kiss it. "And I promise I'll shut up now." I think I manage to tell him that I love him, but sleep comes like a black curtain descending upon me so suddenly that I can't be sure.

The next time awareness comes to me I dimly register my name being spoken softly and repeatedly in a voice unmistakable for any other. I will my eyes to open, but it's several minutes before the brain fog lifts. "Come on darling. I know it's hard." He tries a different tack, pressing his lips to mine, his hot mouth insistent. I can't very well _not_ respond.

"Mmm," I moan against his mouth, "Oh, God …" _kiss_ "Alright …" _kiss_ "I'm awake." I open my eyes as he pulls back to look at me, grinning.

"Hi, baby," he says, and I yelp. He's only ever used that particular endearment once before, and then, as now, it turned my insides to a quivering mass of undoneness. He knows. Oh, does he ever know. Nonchalantly, feigning perfect innocence, he tells me, "We're here."

* * *

 **I began to explore what it was like for Isobel to lose Reginald in One More Morning, and along the way I have stumbled upon the work of a young widow; namely, Nora McInerny. She is a thirtysomething blogger and author who writes incredibly articulately and authentically about losing her first husband and falling in love again. Her website is a haven and her Insta (and her yours, mine & ours family) is adorable. I have drawn a great deal of inspiration for this chapter from an article she authored that appeared in Elle magazine several years back entitled _"My Husband, My Boyfriend, and Me."_ I thought that citing it MLA-style was a bit strange. Check her out if you get a chance. xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I almost made it in time for this week's Unofficial DA Series 8 roundup. This was not how this chapter was going to go. I know I often say that, but this one really evolved today out of nothing after struggling for over a week to string together more than a couple of words.**

 **Originally I had planned (inasmuch as I plan as a writer, which is to say ... HA!) for this piece to fill in some of the backstory after Richard and Isobel become lovers in _One More Morning,_ and before we see them retired and living in Yorkshire full time in _Sweet Seasons._ Basically, I'm time-hopping as I tell the retirement saga, and I guess that likely doesn't matter to anyone else as much as it matters to me.**

 **But I've had some friends comment in reviews about how much they enjoy reading about Isobel finding happiness with Richard _and_ Matthew being alive and developing a friendship with Richard. That has happened because thus far we haven't reached the point at which Matthew and Mary are married, Mary gives birth to baby George, and then Matthew dies.**

 **But then I thought, screw it. My readers are happy. I'm happy. And most importantly, Isobel is happy. So from here on out, consider Feel Again the AU of my AU, or The One Where Matthew Doesn't Die.**

 **As to the tone of this update, I've been rewatching _Last Tango in Halifax_ for the sweetness of the Alan/Celia romance. It's a very similar dynamic to that of Richobel, so I find inspiration in the plot lines, but also in the wonderfully convincing banter between Anne Reid and Derek Jacobi. God, they're cute. I also retell a story that Richard first shared with Isobel in _Sweet Seasons;_ the difference being that this time around, his romance with Isobel is in its infancy. So, whatever. The premise in both instances goes back to David Robb's having said he believes Richard was engaged once, as a young man, and that it ended badly.**

 **To the friends who stand by me and this crazy-beautiful ship through thick and thin, much love and thanks.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

When we arrive at the house in Newton, I help Richard get the water turned on and the pilot lit. I offer to run into town for groceries, but he sends me straight off to bed. I start to put up a fight but quickly realise I haven't got the energy to keep it up. I almost say it to him then. _Richard, I want to retire. Up here. With you. Now._ But what I end up saying is, "At least lie down with me for a few minutes."

He rolls his eyes and says that he was going to mow the lawn and check the level in the oil tank and a couple of other things I don't hear because I'm working on fixing him with a convincing-looking glare. Stepping close, he takes me by the hips and pulls me against his body. "I got you," he laughs hotly in my ear. "I got you good."

"I'd never have guessed there was so much of the devil in you," I murmur, close enough to kiss him. At the last second I turn my head away, undoing his belt and zipper.

"Yeah? Look who's talking," he fires back, making short work of his jumper as I reach behind me, under the hem of my t-shirt, and wiggle out of my bra, pulling it off though one of the sleeve holes.

He shakes his head. "Never knew you were a contortionist. Impressive."

I chuckle. "Darling, every woman everywhere has that trick mastered by about year seven," I tell him, but he isn't listening. His eyes are fixed on the outline of my breasts, my nipples tightening beneath my shirt under the heat of his gaze.

He gathers me against him, wrapping his arms tightly around me, and I tease him for a moment, my lips hovering near his mouth, tasting his warm moist breath. He calls an end to the pretence, catching my bottom lip between his teeth. My tongue slides into his mouth and _Jesus,_ it gets hot in a hurry.

I don't know which one of us makes the decision — perhaps it's mutual — but we pull back after a long few moments, our foreheads resting together as we catch our breath.

"I wonder if it'll always be like this between us," I whisper, tracing the shape of his lips with my fingertips.

"Always?" He echoes. "You think about us in those terms, do you?"

I nod. "I do. There's nothing like this, is there?" I can hear my heart pounding as we turn back the covers. I hope I've not put my foot in it, talking of _always_. I lie down on my back and he on his side, the palm of his hand resting on my ribs, beginning to move in small soothing circles.

"Pity we didn't get round to it years ago, while we were still young," he muses.

I tangle my legs with his. "Well, I don't know about you, but _I'm_ not old."

He grins as the tips of his fingers brush the underside of my breasts. "You, madam, are timeless." He lowers his head to press a quick kiss to my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

" _Ohh."_ The breath rushes from my lungs. "And _you,_ Major, are irresistible. It's entirely unfair how men get sexier with age."

"Well I don't look at other women, so I can't speak to what happens there. But you certainly have done."

He's so brilliantly matter-of-fact that I have to check to be sure I've heard right. "Done what?"

"How long is it we've known each other? Fifteen years now, innit?" I nod. "I've always thought you were beautiful, but now …" he pauses, his fingertips making a circuit down my midline and then back up. "... Now you're just … _stunning_. I walk past you in the corridors or watch you operating in theatre and think, I get to wake up next to her every morning, and take her to bed every night. I'm the one stood in her kitchen watching her sway along with the radio while she cooks." We share a smile and then he leans in close. "I know what she tastes like, and how she feels from the inside."

"Oh my _God,_ Richard!" I don't know what I thought he was going to say, but I hadn't anticipated that! But it's magnificent. There's so much I could say, and I open my mouth to speak several times but nothing comes.

"Is she speechless?" he teases. I nod. "Blimey." Sitting up, he pulls me to straddle his lap. Overcome by the intimacy of the moment, I tuck my head in against his neck. He alternates smoothing my hair and running his hands up under my shirt to rub my back.

I look up at him after some moments, gliding the backs of my fingers over the contours of his face. "If it's as you say …"

"That you've got lovelier as the years have passed," he interjects.

"Yes, well," I demur, "if that's the case, then you're the one responsible. I'm … well, I'm _happy_ now. I could say things I've already said, but that's the long and short of it. Love is the difference."

"C'mere, baby," he whispers, drawing me to him with a hand at the nape of my neck.

" _Oh,_ I love that," I breathe as his lips brush mine. He slides his hands under my bum to bring me right against him and holds me there, kneading me as we kiss. I reach to trace the trail of soft hair that starts under his bellybutton and ends beneath his waistband. He is hardening already when I touch him through his shorts, massaging him gently. He groans and lets his head drop to my shoulder.

"You're meant to be resting, you know," he tells me breathily.

'I know, I know," I gasp. "I will. I'm trusting you to slow us down." One of the virtues of age is that we can start something and wait to finish. "Just move with me a little, hmm? I love the way you feel."

He runs his thumb along the centre seam of my knickers. I'm already getting damp and he gives a throaty half-laugh, half-moan. "You aren't exactly making it easy to stop, sweet girl." He nuzzles my nose with his own.

I lick his upper lip. "So sorry," I tease. "Perhaps we should lie down."

It isn't any less intense with him lying behind me, but since I'm not looking at him it's easier to say some of the things I need him to hear. "Love has never been like this for me," I tell him as he lifts my shirt, sliding his hand up from my hip, over my belly to my breast. It's both wonderful and painful, this thing I've gone and told him. My heart threatens to burst from the sheer volume and intensity of love I have for Richard, and at the same time it hurts, raw and searing. How can there be more between myself and this man whom I've been with for a few months than there was with the one I'm still in love with, who grew up alongside me and delivered our son and whom I still miss as much today as the day he died? "As much as I loved Reg, as much as I _still_ love him, I never _had_ to have him like I have to have you. I want to reconcile that and I can't."

"I'm sorry that it hurts you," he says softly, "but I understand. Better than you know." He twists my hair up and out of the way and kisses the back of my neck, sucking gently. His hips roll against my bum, just a little, enough to keep the embers burning.

"I knew that there was something," I reply, pushing back against him softly. "You've been my rock, and you're the only person who has ever understood me — _this_ me, post-Reg. I'd always marvelled at that, wondered how you could possibly, and I decided it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But nobody's _that_ good … to just give and give to me for all those years when I never gave you anything in return. Unless you'd been through something similar, and knew that I was dead inside. But you never said, and it's the sort of thing I know from experience I couldn't push you on. I know it's hard to believe that _I_ could keep my mouth shut, but …"

It gets a chuckle out of him, which is what I was hoping for. "Yeah, I haven't said … not because I wanted to keep it from you or anything of the sort, but … It was all so long ago. After med school, when I was a junior, with massive debt and working ninety-hour weeks plus a second job to pay for it all — you know how it is …" He kisses my neck again, cradling my breast in his palm. Soothing himself, I realise with a smile. That's the thing about committed love. Physicality in all of its iterations can be comforting and sensual at the same time.

"Yes, I remember it well. Thank God we were young then, eh? That would kill me if I had to do it now." I bring my own hand to rest atop his, mine on top of my shirt and his beneath.

"Truer words …" he says, nodding his head. I can feel it. _Wonderful._ "Anyway, I met a girl, a friend of the sister of one of my cricket mates. I was horrendously shy …"

"You still are," I interrupt. "It's adorable, actually."

"I'm glad you think so. And I'm glad she did. She spoke to me first, or I'd never have done. Just like you, she was leaps and bounds out of my league …"

"Would you stop that? You're a beautiful man, Richard. And brilliant besides." I turn my head to kiss his mouth.

"Well then, I've snatched up the two women in the world who've thought so," he says as our lips part. "Anyway, our timing was awful. She was an art student and between us we didn't have tuppence to rub together. But I loved her, and she loved me. She was my first love, and you're the next. The _last."_

"But you never married her?" I realise that question has potential to be taken the wrong way as the words leave my mouth. What I don't want him to hear is, _Does that mean you're never going to marry me?_ As if I've got the right to say anything.

He doesn't, thankfully. "We almost … As I said, we were both of us flat broke, and I wanted to be able to provide for her, I suppose ..." I can't see his face, but I can _hear_ him blush, thinking that I'll see him as old-fashioned. And I do, but in a wonderful, chivalrous way. I say nothing, but I reach back to smooth my hand over his hip and he continues, "... at least until she finished her degree and got a job in her field. So I wanted to wait, but she wanted to marry. So I did propose properly. I _am_ capable, in spite of appearances …"

"That was me getting the wrong end of the stick, darling. Your only crime was perhaps knocking back a few too many that night." Cupping his cheek, I kiss him again. Oh, how I wish I could erase that one stupid misstep from our past.

"Aye, that … and the fact that at that point neither you nor I had ever made mention of romantic feelings …"

"But any fool could have seen they were there. At any rate, we're here now. Tell me why you never married this … what was she called?"

"Jessica. Jessie. We'd got a flat of our own together, just a little one-up-one-down, but it was _ours._ The wedding was three months out and I was at home trying to get a couple of hours' sleep before an overnight shift at the hospital. Jess hadn't got home from work and I thought that was curious, but it was an internship at a gallery and getting hung up past closing wasn't all that strange. The doorbell rang and there were two police officers stood on my front step, telling me there'd been an accident. Jessie's car was run off the road by a transit van on her way home to me. They said she was, ah ... " I hear him swallow hard and clear his throat. "... She was killed instantly. So …"

"Jesus." I turn in his arms and his eyes — forthright to the point that I feel as if I'm seeing his soul — meet mine. "Oh, love … I'm sorry, so sorry. You _do_ know, don't you?"

"Yeah, sadly, I do." He kisses me, deep and slow and sad and needy. He has been in my life for the majority of my grieving years, but what about him? Who has there been for him to turn to?

"What did you do … after, I mean?" I lift his vest over his head and toss it somewhere. For reasons I don't understand, I feel I need to be close to his heart. Laying him down, I kiss him there, as if somehow I can heal thirty-some years of heartache. _Jesus, he's been hurting longer than I have,_ I realise. Now I have an inkling of how difficult it must have been for him since we've known one another. I hurt, _I hurt._ For him; for that young woman full of promise, dreaming of a brilliant future, who loved him and lost her life.

"Oh, Isobel," he sighs, "I didn't. I deferred my training, enlisted in the Army and left Edinburgh. Drank too much; blamed myself. I rose through the ranks quickly, but it had less to do with valor and more with idiocy. I volunteered for all the missions no one would send their worst enemy into. Practically gave my mother heart failure, I think … the number of times she got _that_ call. 'Mrs. Clarkson, your son's in a military hospital in Ramstein, or Kabul, or Beirut.' I reckon I thought that if I were killed doing something honourable, it would atone for Jess dying so senselessly. I dunno; the decisions we make in our twenties …"

"Yeah, or when we're grieving. I get it. I wanted it to be me. Me instead of Reg; me alongside him. But you went back to medicine …" I lie on his chest, stroking his abdomen. Anything to soothe. I know now how helpless he must often have felt with me.

"But not without missing the last years of my father's life. I was discharged with honours after Beirut. They wouldn't take me back with half a rib gone, so they sent me home, and when I got there Mam was alone. She'd lost Da six months since, and I wasn't there." He runs his fingers through my hair absently, turning his head away. Too painful; I understand. "Still haven't forgiven myself for that one," he nearly whispers. "He was the best of men. If there's anything decent in me, it's thanks to him. Anyways …" He's tapped into something more raw than he bargained for and doesn't know what to do with it. So he kisses me. Rolls me beneath him and holds my hands against the mattress and kisses me: hard and bruising and sweet and searching. This is making love, just as much as it is when he is inside me. This is us, each one broken down to the basest level of ourselves; reaching out, holding fast to the beacon that sounds our frequency.

We cling to one another until he finds peace and collapses beside me. "Are you alright, darling?" I ask, smoothing back the hair at his temples.

"Oh yeah. Aye. Sorry. I didn't tell you to bring down the mood. I actually didn't tell you for any other reason than things are moving forward with you and I, and it's the sort of thing you ought to know before much more time passes. And to say that I understand the conflict. Some of it, that's to say. I had almost a year with Jess and you had twenty years of marriage and a son with Reginald, so I can't say it's the same …"

"It is, though! You loved her, and I know how you love." That gets him to smile, and he raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. "If she were alive now you'd be married almost thirty-five years, and I'm sure you'd have had a lovely bunch of freckled, blue-eyed little Scots babies. You get to think about what might've been, Richard. It makes me love you more, you know. We've both of us been there. We've made it. And now here we are! And do you know what else?"

"No, but I reckon you're going to tell me." There's that adorable, impish grin I love.

"You get to love her still, and always. And I'll be right beside you, doing the same. We'll be our own little therapy group!"

He hugs me to him. "I do love you, sweet girl. You're an angel of mercy, d'ye know that?"

I rub the pad of my thumb across his bottom lip. "I'll remind you of that next time we argue over one of my patients," I tease.

Silence passes companionably for some moments as we lie sprawled amongst the covers. We touch sweetly every so often in a sort of unspoken _I'm not going anywhere, and by the bye, I love you._ I'm sure that he's thinking of his Jessica, and I'm thinking of Reg. We burned brightly together, my first love and I. He wanted this for me, what I've found with Richard. I still keep the note he wrote to me on top of my dressing table. _You have so much love inside of you. Don't spend your life alone, Izzy. Find love again. Promise me._

"Richard?" I am first to speak, but I'd bet any amount of money he and I will have come to the same conclusion. We do that. It's weird, and it's wondrous.

"Yes, beauty?" He draws me close, his arm around my waist and one of my legs between both of his.

"I don't think we're meant to feel guilt over the nature of … things." I gesture to the space in between us. "Reg and I loved each other intensely. We did all of the _first_ things together, you know? First car, first flat, first holidays. First lovers. But we were so innocent. Until we lost our babies and then my dad, death hadn't touched either one of us."

He nods. "Jess and I were like that. It was us against the world; damn the naysayers. The world was our oyster. I suppose it was important for each of us to have had — for me it was a glimpse and for you it was a young lifetime — but it showed us both the depth of love that was meant for us."

"... So that we'd know it when it came round again." I pick up his train of thought. "Yeah. I think there are different kinds of love — even romantic love — and none is more or less valid than another."

"And what we know now that we couldn't have known then is that time is a thief, and today is all we've got." What a succinct and perfect and altogether _Richard_ observation.

"So perhaps it's not wrong for me to think that I want to love you better than I loved Reg, and perhaps it isn't that I failed him, or you failed Jessica. We loved the best we could have done, knowing what we knew at the time."

"That's it: it's _time._ The key factor in the whole thing. If we'd had more time with them we'd have grown, and they'd have done as well, and the _better_ we think we missed out on giving them would have happened as a matter of course."

We look at one another and smile. "Well damn, love, I think we've cracked it. Shall we give quantum physics a try whilst we're on a roll?"

"D'ye know how far you've come, that you're able to be lighthearted about it now?" he asks me. This is why it's important to have a partner in the grieving process. Where I lack perspective, he fills the gaps.

"Have I? I couldn't have done, not without you. I'm glad you told me, Richard. I don't know whether you were lacking a sense of peace about it, but I know I've got one now."

"I'll have more peace once I know you've slept, though," he says, signifying his satisfaction that we've put paid to matters of the heart for now.

So much for his having agreed to a quick lie down; we sleep the better part of the afternoon away. Tea is cobbled together from cheese on toast and leek soup and we eat on the couch by the fireplace, swathed in blankets and drinking Glenmorangie. After a long soak together in the wonderfully spacious garden tub, we endeavour to watch _Last Tango in Halifax_ on the iPad from bed, but he doesn't last ten minutes and with his head on my chest and my eyelids heavy, I surrender to sleep as well. Clearly this holiday was sorely needed by us both.

 **oOo**

On the Friday Richard and I are both preoccupied, he with the lawn and getting oil delivered and replacing roof tiles on one of the outbuildings. I do what mothers the world over do when their children are coming home: I cook. Tomorrow will be taken up with the wedding but dinner tonight will be a family affair. Matthew and Mary arrive just after lunchtime and, just as he did when he was a tyke, Matthew nicks a bit of shortbread and a taste of the chowder I've got simmering away on the hob.

And just as _I_ did when he was small, I smack his hand away. "Matthew Reginald!" I scold, but I can't keep a straight face. "You weren't raised in a barn for pity's sake. Where _are_ your manners?"

"You love me, Mother," he plays along, winking. I see so much of his father in him in that moment, and I ruffle his hair as I've always done.

"You know I do," I tell him. My heart is full. My son is home, here in this house that holds so much of our shared history. I feel Reg's presence here in extra measure. It's almost as if he's giving his blessing to all of this — to Matthew and Mary, to Richard and I. To the family we all are forming, odd conglomeration of souls though we may be.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Richard speaks! I didn't foresee this chapter coming about at all, but I really enjoyed writing it. If the last half reads as rambling, it's sort of intentional. Late-night thoughts seem to follow that pattern.**

 **I have to thank some special people: C for encouraging me and laughing with/at me when I said I didn't know how to write a conversation between two non-American men, and S for helping me to get that conversation right and for putting into words, from a man's perspective, what it's like to be in love with one's best friend. A family that writes together ... conquers the loss of a job at Christmastime together? I hope.**

 **I really am going to get on with the Larry Grey-Amelia Cruikshank wedding reception/Isobel and Richard's public "coming out" as a couple. That's slated to be the next chapter. But that's been the case for the last three chapters, so I'm going to stop saying it's next. I say that, however, to say that I made a Spotify playlist of the songs that I have in mind when I think of the wedding. Because it's the fifteenth Richobel-inspired playlist I've made on Spotify, I literally named it "everybody needs another richobel playlist." ;) Anyhow, it's not a lengthy one, so Spotify started augmenting it with other tracks. Usually this vexes me (I'm annoyingly picky about music), but it played "Home to Me" by Josh Kelley, which I hadn't heard before. It's perfectly them, so it's become a permanent addition to my library AND the playlist. And it inspired Richard's voice in this chapter, if that makes sense.**

 **Love and thanks to all of you for your support and your incredible reviews.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

With Isobel in her element and Mary busily working, I reckon Matthew and I won't be missed if we slip down to the pub for a bit after dinner.

"Can I bring you back something?" I ask Isobel as she looks up at me over her specs from the journal article she's reading. I smile. Not only is she beautiful, she's incredibly cute besides.

"Hmm? Oh no, love. We've got enough food here for a small army." She laughs, silly and musical. _What a beauty_. I kneel beside her chair.

"Oi," I say, getting her to look at me. "Give us a kiss." I lean in, watching her mouth. Her lower lip always quivers before I kiss her. _Irresistible._

Her mouth is sweet and yielding and one kiss quickly becomes two. Matthew clears his throat, teasing us.

"Alright, you two! Not in front of the kids!"

Isobel chucks a throw pillow at him. "Keep the shenanigans to a minimum, lads," she says to us both. She winks at me and blows a kiss to Matthew and we're off.

 **oOo**

On the drive into the village we chat about work. With his specialty in property law, Matthew works as a liaison between real estate developers and local jurisdictions to broker development contracts that comply with building code and environmental protection statutes. He reckons it's his way of preserving history while moving forward responsibly. It's brilliant. I think he's brilliant, and it's a pleasure to count this young man as a friend. He reminds me of a young, idealistic version of myself. He reminds me of his mother. Which is why we're here.

We order a pint each of the house lager and have a go at the dart board. We usually play Killers when Isobel is along, but tonight's game is Round the Clock. Oftentimes I can just edge out Matthew for the win. He's got a hell of a throw, but he has a tendency to let it go at the end of the game and I can finagle his weakness to my advantage two times out of three.

But the best of British luck isn't mine tonight. _You're not a Brit, ye numpty._ On my first throw, I miss not only the '1,' but the entire board. The second throw glances off the outer rim of the board and hits the floor. _Dammit!_ I manage to land the third, and Matthew hits 1, 2, and 3 in rapid succession without blinking. My game doesn't improve, and with every miss the muttering of obscenities increases. It earns me a raised eyebrow and a chuckle from my companion; his gran was Scots so there's no putting anything over on him.

After a sound walloping I suggest a sit down. Matthew buys this round of drinks. I can tell he's on to me, and I reckon he's trying to work out whether the old sod's having a stroke.

"You alright, mate?" he asks as a sheen of perspiration breaks out across my forehead. My eyes roll towards the ceiling of their own accord. He _would_ have to notice. But then this shouldn't surprise me; he is his mother's son.

"Yep," I grunt in an attempt to preserve some measure of decorum. It earns me a sideways glance.

"Just checking I don't need to ring emergency services," he grins, and then, "It isn't Mother, is it? She seems fit enough, but that doesn't always mean much." He thinks for a moment. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Nah, mate. Your mum's fine. We don't either of us bounce back from ninety-hour weeks like we did at your age, but … How's Mary?" _Smooth, old man. Change the subject._

At the mention of her name his ears redden and he turns away, hiding behind the clearing of his throat. He's besotted. "Mary is a study in contrasts," he says, shaking his head. "I have all I can do to keep up."

"Yeah, and you hate it, I can tell." I can't pass up the chance to hassle him a bit.

"Like you've got room to talk," he fires back. "All joking aside, the change has been good for Mother. She still works entirely too hard, but now she actually leaves the hospital from time to time. And her couches get sat on! I used to kid her that her flat was like a gallery. _Where posh furniture goes to die."_

"Hear, hear," I grin. I used to think the same.

"Honestly though, you're good for her. I haven't seen her smile so much since before Dad got sick. Whatever you're doing, keep at it!"

There's my _entrée._ Thank you, Matthew. "That's actually the reason I wanted to chat. We've known one another almost as long as I've known your mum. You know I love her. I have done since I met her."

Realisation dawns and an expression of amusement crosses his face. "You want to marry her, don't you? This … this is …"

 _Breathe,_ a voice inside my head reminds me. It won't lend anything to my credibility if I faint.

"This is hilarious," Matthew pronounces. Not what I was expecting to hear. Just as my stomach begins to sink he continues, "You don't know, do you mate? You really don't know! Oh, this is too good!"

He's enjoying seeing me sweat. Must get that from his mother. "Oi," I tell him, "help a fellow out here."

"Do you recall telling me about the time, years ago, when you and Mother went out after work and you had a bit too much fun and essentially proposed to her?" He's taking far too much pleasure in this.

"Like I could forget," I groan. If a hole were to open up beneath my chair and swallow me right about now I'd be most grateful.

"No, no … this is _classic!_ All the time you've been thinking you blew your chance with her, _she's_ been flogging herself for giving you the brush-off. My God, you two deserve each other. I've never seen anything like it!"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, studying the floorboards with interest. It wouldn't surprise me if he's texting Mary about what a plonker the old git is, and if he were doing he wouldn't be wrong. Isobel Crawley is and will always be beyond my reach.

"Listen, Matthew, forget I said anything, alright? I was wrong to bring you here—"

"No, no, you're not getting it, Richard. My mother _loves_ you. I keep trying to tell her that she should just ask you. After all, you know how she is …"

"Never backward in coming forward. I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that at all …"

"Right, but you see, she won't. She thinks that she put you off the notion of marrying her when, well … you know."

I grit my teeth. _That infernal woman!_ But this is her son. I like to think we'd be mates even if Isobel wasn't part of the equation, but she _is,_ and accordingly there's only so much I can say.

Matthew breaks up my train of thought. "Look, what I'm telling you is that if you ask her, she's not going to say no."

"And you'd be alright with that? Because essentially that would make me—"

"My stepfather?" he finishes for me. "Richard, I'm not a child. Before he died, Dad told Mother she had too much love to give to spend the rest of her life alone. And he told me not to stand in her way when she found someone. You make her _happy,_ man. There was a long time I was afraid she never would be again. You could be a right tosser and I still wouldn't be able to argue with that. The fact that you're a mate is icing on the cake." He then adds, grinning, "You two are every bit as _married_ already as she and my dad ever were."

Well then. That's settled. Should be smooth sailing from here on out.

"When are you thinking of asking her? Because I know you wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't already have something in mind," Matthew says.

 _Bloody hell._ I was beginning to think I might come through this with some modicum of dignity still intact, but that's looking less and less likely. "At the risk of looking like a prize idiot, I don't know," I admit. I rummage around in the pocket of my jacket for the squarish velvet box. "But I've been carrying this around for a couple of months now, figuring I'll recognise the right moment when it arrives."

The ring isn't flashy because that's not Isobel. It's a full carat diamond solitaire, bezel-set so that it won't get in her way when she's working. The band itself is thin and plain but the bezel has a scalloped edge. I hope it's alright.

Matthew claps me on the back. "Good on you, mate. She'll love it. And for what it's worth, she thinks you hung the stars for making a family holiday of this weekend. You'll know when the time's right, but if I were you I'd think about taking advantage of the setting. This is home as far as she's concerned."

 **oOo**

When we arrive back at the house Isobel and Mary are sat in the conservatory sipping red wine and laughing so hard they've got tears rolling down their cheeks. I wonder what on earth is so hilarious. _Probably us,_ I think, sharing a knowing look with Matthew. It pleases me to see the ladies enjoying one another's company, as I know how hard Isobel has been working to see what Matthew sees in Mary.

The four of us play a game that Matthew and Mary brought along called Cards Against Humanity. I'd never heard of it, but it has all of us roaring with laughter into the wee hours of the morning. I realise it probably makes me soft, but there are few things that please me as much as hearing Isobel laugh.

Our room is cold when we go to bed, and we yelp as we pull off clothing and slip beneath the covers. Clad in only her camisole and knickers, Isobel is warm and soft. Her sweet mouth tastes of the wine she drank and her body is languid and pliant. It's late and we're far too tired to start anything, but with her beneath me, her gentle fingers ghosting over my skin as we kiss, it is as intimate as any lovemaking. No words are spoken beyond her breathy, "I love you" and my whispered reply. Her eyelids grow heavy and I curl myself around her from behind. With my hand resting on her belly I can feel the instant her breathing evens out into sleep, and even then I can't resist touching her, letting the silkiness of her hair slip between my fingers and trailing my lips across her shoulders.

As worn out as my body is, my mind is in overdrive. Six months ago I sat on the floor of the lounge in my dearest friend's flat (devoid as it was of a couch at the time) and kissed her for the first time. No relationship, regardless of its nature, has brought me deeper joy or greater frustration. Nothing about either one of us, Isobel or myself, is easygoing or low-key. Give us a case in which we have a patient in common and nine out of ten times we will disagree on the best course of treatment, each of us ready to go several rounds defending our choices. Yet even in the middle of most heated debate we believe wholeheartedly in the other's dedication. And the moment we're off the clock it is she I want to see.

It was enough for a while just to be near her, to watch her work and listen to her thoughts, to share meals or a drink after work. Then it began to transpire that on days we didn't see each other, one of us would ring the other before we retired for the night. I told myself that it was to check she was alright; nights were not kind to her, after all. It was enough, would have to be enough, because her heart still belonged to her husband.

But it wasn't enough. From the very first time she let her guard drop, I knew that I loved her. Loved her the way I'd loved Jessica, only with an even greater intensity. I like to think that I'm a temperate man — at this age anyway — but I began to recognise in myself the same _got-to-have-her_ feeling for Isobel that I'd had when I was with Jess.

It got to the point that I don't know what I'd have done if she didn't feel the same. I made a right arse of myself in front of her once and I wouldn't have put it past me to do it again. Mercifully, fate was kind and I never had to find out.

And when we finally took the plunge, we found that instead of losing our friendship, which was the greatest fear for both of us, love added to what we already had. It was less like falling and more a sensation of coming home.

I find myself making the analogy between Isobel and home on a near-daily basis lately. Now that she holds my heart, there is a peace that rules our existence. Life has not suddenly become simpler, but I no longer feel adrift. Without forfeiting my self-respect I can say unreservedly that there seems at last to be a _point_ to the way I spend my days. That may well sound absurd coming from someone who saves NICU babies for a living, but believe it or not even that becomes mundane when you've no one waiting for you at day's end.

Isobel has said that her flat isn't really _her,_ and now that I've spent a good amount of time up here with her I understand. But from the day we bought her couch I've not spent a single night at my own. In fact, the lease is up in six weeks and Matthew and Mary are going to take it. I think Isobel's flat feels like _us,_ but then I suppose I'm partial. Almost all of our firsts have taken place within those walls. I never really had a home after I lost Jess and left Edinburgh. A proper one, that is, wherein I felt an attachment to the place. That is, until now.

I've learned things about my best friend in her home that I'd never have guessed at before. Things like the fact that she argues with the radio. I tease her that we must not argue often enough anymore if she's resorted to shouting into the ether. When the current events programmes are on she goes up one side of the announcers and down the other, especially when the junior doctors' strikes and seven-day NHS are mentioned.

She is magnificent in her fury, just as she's precious when the music's playing and she's quietly singing along. And if Isobel is at home, there will always be music playing. She sways with it as she stands at the hob or whilst she's doing the washing up. She says it's a throwback to Matthew's infancy, when she was juggling a junior's schedule with a doctor-husband and a house to keep after. When she was home her lad wanted only to be in her arms, so she learned to do almost everything one-handed with the babe perched on her hip.

She is a whiz in the kitchen, equally as comfortable wielding a paring knife as a scalpel. She lives for gatherings like this little holiday of ours, when she can pull out all the stops. Forever barefoot at home, she is as elegant in t-shirts and tracksuit bottoms as in the smart trouser suits and pearls she wears on meeting days. She despises folding laundry but loves ironing, and she cannot abide clutter in her living space.

As carefully as she guards herself with others, she is wonderfully warm and tactile as a lover, as my love. She touches like she's savouring it and responds to me with wonder, as if she genuinely cannot believe we are together. She moves over me, under me with a quiet self-assurance, owning her sexuality, whispering heavenly vulgarities — observations, requests, commands — in breathy, hushed tones with perfect diction. She makes love like it's the first time and the last, like a virgin and a vixen. I watch her chairing meetings or chatting up her nurses and think, _I know your tells now,_ with private delight. I always knew she'd be a treasure if ever I had the fortune to love her, but not the extent to which that would bear out.

Of the two of us she is the closet academic, the one who makes lovely literary references that connect seamlessly to everyday life. I'm the one who can get by without a lot of knowledge by waxing cerebral and employing a lowlands brogue. I know that she has a special reverence for the Old Testament, having studied it before she ultimately chose medicine. As I look at her now, with the privilege of knowing her as only her husband has done before me, I am put in mind of the proclamation of King Solomon's bride: _This is my beloved and this is my friend._ And if the fates are kind, I may soon have the privilege of calling her my wife.

Her flat is likely to remain our home for the time being, until we can see our way to planning our future. I am certain that when we retire it will be to move up here to this house that means so very much to her. And I get it now, I really do. It's a treasure trove of English history, a real country hideaway amidst a madly bucolic backdrop. But that it is so dear to her has little to do with the structure and everything to do with the love of the family who have called it home for over half a century. I'll be in my element when we do decide to sell up and move, but I could live absolutely anywhere so long as Isobel is by my side. _She_ is home to me.

She stirs during the course of my musings and I wonder whether I've tossed about too much. "Mmlove … alright?" she mumbles, turning over to face me.

I can't suppress a grin. "Hey, beauty … sorry. Did I wake you?"

She shakes her head. "Mm-mm. Just knew you weren't sleeping. 'S'a' matter?"

I press my lips to her forehead. "Nothing at all is the matter. Just gathering wool. I reckon I'm having trouble adjusting to being on holiday. My body thinks it's time to get up for work."

She answers with an empathetic, sleepy smile. "You're not anxious about tomorrow, are you?"

 _The wedding reception._ I'd nearly forgotten that's why we're up here. _Yes, love, I'm petrified about tomorrow, but not for the reasons you think._ "Nah, no," I tell her. "Though I may or may not be hoping Larry trips when he walks into the party."

That gets her full attention, and she pretends shock for a moment until the giggles win out. "I have a proposal for you," she says conspiratorially. My heart leaps at the word _proposal_ until I remember she has no knowledge of my inner turmoil or my conversation with Matthew. "A game: for every time Larry utters the words _'I'_ or _'myself,'_ we drink."

"Darling, if we do that we'll be under the table before we're sat down to dinner," I answer.

"Are you in, or what?" She cocks a pretty eyebrow at me. I lean in and kiss it back into place.

"You're not like anyone, my girl. D'ye know that?" I kiss her lips; I can't resist. "I'll play if you play."

The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile. "Right then. If we're going, we're going to have fun. Now, how can I help? Can I hold you?"

As a younger man — and perhaps even now if I weren't with a woman who is always boldly vulnerable with me even when it frightens her — I would not have admitted to being the one who needed holding. But this is my best friend, the one whom I'll grow old with, and though our physical relationship is new all our cards have been on the table for years now. Love doesn't play by dated gender stereotypes. Love meets needs, regardless.

"Would you?" Our eyes meet; no shame, no judgement. She smiles and opens her arms to me.

"Get comfortable, darling." She waits as I turn towards her, as I press my ear to her heart. My hands skim her breasts and she sighs; when I massage them she cries out softly. "Richard …"

I look up at her. "You're sure you don't mind?" _Mind that I need you._ _ **How**_ _I need you._

She chuckles softly, her expression heavy-lidded and sultry. _"Mind,"_ she chuffs. "I waited twenty years to be … _this_ for someone again." She pauses, gentle fingers massaging my scalp. "I'm in love with you," she sighs happily. As if that explains everything. Because it _does._

I can feel the curtain of night descending upon me as I lie surrounded by her warmth and the sweet scent of her skin, the soft swell of her breasts and the beating of her heart. Before it pulls me under there is something I want her to know. "I'm happier with you than I've ever been, Isobel."

Her breath hitches, her chest heaving with a singular happy sob. "Oh, love," she breathes, barely audible. The tips of her fingers graze my brow. "Sleep now."

* * *

 _Isn't it perfect how the memories feel the same  
Isn't it amazing how the song remains unchanged  
Time is wasted on money and money wasted on lust  
Treat her like a lady and she'll never get enough_

 _'Cause it's you that I'm running to baby  
It's you that I'm feeling for lately and  
It's like a pain that never goes away  
And it always starts today  
_

' _Cause you are home to me, cause you are home to me  
'Cause you are home to me, cause you are home to me_

 _-"Home to Me," Josh Kelley_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: How do I love Richobel? Allow me to list my feels. That is the basic gist of this chapter, I think. It's a long one, and I swore to myself that I'd never do long chapters again, but I'm not sorry this time. I love each and every word that has made it this far, after eight rounds of editing. Even if I end up being the only one.  
**

 **Lots of inspiration for this chapter, like Pen in that seafoamy-teal evening dress she wore as Ann Bryce in the _Neighbourhood Watch_ episode of Ever Decreasing Circles (S04 E04). And Julian Ovenden singing. And the playlist of mine (the eleventeenth one I've made) literally entitled _everyone needs another richobel playlist._ I've thrown a ton of song feels at you, figuring that the plotline justifies them all. Credits will appear in the footnotes at the chapter's close. And for those who may be interested, I've posted pics on Tumblr of the dress I have Isobel wearing (from Tadashi Shoji) and of Richard's coordinating bow tie.**

 **I just discovered as I logged on to post this update that I've had half a dozen new reviews to various stories in the past several days. I have received a grand total of -0- notifications from FF about them. I'm mortified, as I'm sure I've come across as an arrogant twat who doesn't respond to reviews. Please know that is NOT the case! Under normal circumstances it may take me a day or two, but I do respond. And I am unspeakably grateful to all of you who support me.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

I'm oddly anxious getting ready to go to the reception on Saturday. It makes no logical sense; this is Larry Grey's occasion to make or break. I shouldn't think he'd use his own wedding reception as a public forum for airing his grievances. Even Larry has more couth than that. I think.

And as to mingling with the rest of the guests, I can work a room with my eyes closed. I got that from my father, who was always the life of the party. Of course, just because I _can_ do it, that doesn't mean that I always enjoy it. In fact, the older I get the more of a phony I feel. _Right, so there's at least half the issue. And the rest?_

I know how very much Richard is dreading going. He hasn't got past Dickie Grey's declaration of love for me. Never mind that it was two years ago, after The Proposal That Wasn't but well before I knew the true nature of Richard's affections. And never mind that as genial as I find him, I could never have romantic — or anything more than cordial — feelings for Dickie. I hope that after stepping out with Richard today, as a couple, any lingering doubts on the part of either man as to where he stands in regard to me will be put paid to once and for all.

And then I suppose there is the matter of my dress. I purchased it after Richard and I took the decision to attend the reception together. It's absolutely stunning if I do say so myself: teal-coloured, symmetrically-patterned lace over a sheath of the same colour. It's all extremely tasteful, but a rather more close-fitting style than I've worn since I was a much younger woman. And it necessitated the purchase of some underwear the likes of which I've not even thought about since Reg was alive and well. There's all manner of outcry amongst the younger ones that a woman should never dress for anyone but herself, and on the face of it I agree. But while I bought the dress for the way I felt in it when I tried it on, I'll admit that much of that feeling had to do with my anticipation of Richard's reaction to seeing me in it.

So there we are. He hasn't seen it; he only knows the colour because, lovely man, he wanted us to coordinate somewhat. And all that I know is that his navy blue suit is the one he took to the cleaners. I treasure every opportunity to catch a glimpse of him in a suit. He is quite possibly the most unfussy individual I've ever known, but where formal attire is concerned he buys well, and none of his suits fits him more exquisitely than the navy. I think that I shall have a fine time admiring him today. And rather a task, I realise, having to look but not touch.

After breakfast in bed with Richard, both of us lying in until the last possible second, I decide on a long bath to calm my nerves. There's a matter of personal grooming that I've been mulling over from the time our relationship took on a physical element. I always did it as a married woman, with both myself and Reginald appreciating the benefits. After he died I'd long since let it go, and now I wonder … I think that both Richard and I would enjoy the result if I were to start again, but. Am I too … _old?_ No better time than the present to find out, I conclude. If one or the other of us hates it it's only temporary. And once the task is complete and I slip into my new knickers (hopefully also not ridiculous for my age), I'm straightaway glad I did it. And I'm all the more excited and anxious to get today over with so that I can be alone with Richard.

I dither over what to do with my hair, but only until the thought of Richard's face buried against my neck invades my mind and it's clear: up is the only way to go. I've had enough experience with having to put my hair up for hospital events that I manage a sort of twisted chignon pinned at the nape. I'm never one for a great deal of fuss where makeup is concerned. I have a ten-minute face for everyday life and a fifteen-minute version for events or evenings out (of which this is one), which involves a bit more eyeliner and an extra coat or two of black mascara.

I've just finished and am surveying the result when Richard comes in. I don't even notice that he's there until I take one last look in the mirror and catch him standing in the doorway, his jaw practically on the floor.

"Well hello, Major Clarkson! Aren't you dashing?" I never knew it was possible for his eyes to look bluer, but the dark blue of his suit makes them sparkle. He's got a Paisley pocket square, brown and the same teal colour as my dress. He looks … well, delicious, if I'm honest. I feel my face flush at the thought.

He sees it and touches my cheek. "You are _divine,_ my darling." Did he intend to roll those _r's_ so enticingly? I feel faint as I stand before him, under the heat of his gaze, the scent of his cologne and the warmth that radiates from his body.

"Are you sure it's alright? I don't look like I'm trying too hard?"

He takes my hands in his and raises them to his lips, kissing the knuckles, his eyes locked on my own as he does so. "Isobel, that dress looks like it was made especially for you. There's a reason I was stood there gaping like a trout. You're a vision, sweet girl. Can I kiss you?"

I nod. "Please."

He draws me against him, one hand at the small of my back and the other cupping my cheek. His eyes focus on my lips and I think, No; I did not _need_ to find a man in order for my life to have meaning again. But I certainly didn't have _this_ in my life before Richard; _this_ being that feeling of _rightness_ , of being adored, of having a home for my affections. Men do not make women beautiful, but the love of a good one does tend to amplify one's inner beauty.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips just before they touch mine. His kiss is so tender it makes my heart ache. I love him; I want him. This moment reminds me of the "first look" Reg and I took at one another on our wedding day, he in black tie and I in my dress, my brother and sister-in-law chaperoning us from the farthest corner of the hall. I was alright; I was _fine_ until he drew me close and we looked into one another's eyes and he whispered, "Today I marry my best friend." Waterproof mascara wasn't quite then what it is today, and my eyes had to be completely redone once we parted. This feels like that all over again. Like it ought to be _our_ wedding day, mine and Richard's. I do hope that day comes for us, and soon.

The kiss breaks but his mouth lingers so close that our lips are _just_ not quite touching. "Oh, sweetheart," he breathes, and I can't be certain but it sounds almost as if he's fighting tears of his own, "I want to take you out in that dress, someplace really extraordinary, and then I want to bring you home … and take you out of it."

"Mmm," I agree. "And then I want you to take me." My belly flutters delightfully as I say the words.

" _Jesus,"_ he moans, and this time when he kisses me it's anything but gentle, his tongue slipping against mine as he steals the breath from my lungs. Our foreheads rest together as we regain our bearings and I run the backs of my fingers over his cheek. Since the privilege of touching him has been mine, I've never felt his face so smooth this late in the day. I can't resist running my lips over it, peppering his cheeks with tiny kisses.

"Feels good," I explain. "In fact, _all_ of you feels good to me." Our eyes meet and I smile. "You know, we can make that wish of yours come true tonight," I tell him. "I'm going to this thing _with you,_ so I should try to think of it as less a work obligation and more … dinner and dancing at Beningbrough Hall. As extraordinary places go that one's no slouch. And we haven't got to stay all that long, and then the rest of the night is ours."

His eyes smile at me. "Afraid we might get called on to treat whiplash, what with all the heads you're going to turn."

"You say the sweetest things," I grin, and then, "Where's your tie, love?"

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and produces the item in question, a bow tie that matches his Paisley pocket square.

"Look at you!" I exclaim, delighted. "Shall I?"

"If you like," he replies, stepping closer to me.

There is something inherently intimate to me about a woman tying a man's tie. As I reach for Richard's shirt collar I feel his eyes on me, his breath on my cheek. My fingertips brush against the pulse point in his throat and I fail to stifle a gasp. Every reminder of how very much _alive_ he is touches me deeply.

I pause to kiss Richard there, my lips latching greedily onto the skin. _He's alive,_ the voice inside my head declares, repeating it like a mantra. _Alive, alive, alive! And I'm alive again because of him._

"Isobel," I hear him say, "baby, stop. You can leave your mark on me anyplace you fancy … later." Reluctantly I pull back and finish sorting out his tie, but not before he takes my lips roughly one more time. _Later_ can't come soon enough.

 **oOo**

It may not make a lot of logical sense for Richard and I to go separately from Matthew and Mary to the reception, or to take the Rover when the venue is within shouting distance of the house, but with a view to our plans for afterwards that's exactly what we do. We pull into the car park and Richard slips his hand into mine, squeezing my fingers.

"You know I've been here a hundred times, but it never fails to amaze me," I tell him as we admire the silhouette of the great house in the light of late afternoon.

" _You_ amaze me, sweet girl," he tells me. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "Oi," he says, "you anxious?"

"Terrified," I admit, wrapping our fingers together. "Not of stepping out with you … I want the world to know." I squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back. "Is it Larry?"

"Yeah. I ought to be above that at this point in life. I don't know what's got into me."

"Isobel, he attacked you, unprovoked, in a public forum. If he so much as looks at you sideways today, God help me, I'll—"

"Oh, you'll what?" I interrupt, giggling. "Punch him on the nose? Richard, I don't need you to defend my honour." His ears tinge pink and I nudge his shoulder.

"Well I would, you know."

"Yes, I do know. And you have done. And I love you for it." Wrapping an arm around his back, I pull him into my side. "Never let it be said you're not eager."

"I mean it, love. If there's so much as the suggestion of trouble, we're leaving."

"Let's not go down that road yet, alright? We're here together; Matthew and Mary are here … let's do our level best to enjoy, alright? Until and unless we're given any reason not to."

"For you?" he replies, "Anything."

 **oOo**

The scene we walk in on is far less tense than we'd imagined. Those who attended the wedding ceremony are filtering into the reception a few at a time and Larry and his bride, his brother Timothy and their father must be caught up with the photographer because I don't see them yet.

What I do see as we enter the hall, my hand at Richard's elbow, is the look that passes between his nurse, Thomas Barrow, and my registrar, Phyllis Baxter. I hear her mutter, "I knew it!" and see him roll his eyes (Wonder who he learned that from?) as he hands her a tenner. Phyllis is a love, and when we greet one another she says she'd had strong suspicions we were together and how pleased she is for both of us. Thomas is a bit of a plotter, and it wouldn't surprise me if I were to discover him spreading gossip about us. But what's there to say, really? Richard and I know the truth, and besides I rather think I'd shout it from the rooftops if doing so wouldn't call the kind of attention to my love that he's spent his life trying to avoid.

I enquire about Phyllis' partner, Joe Molesley, who (in yet another peculiar coincidence — it seems there are so many of late) happens to be the son of the groundskeeper who cares for the garden at the house while I'm in the city. She says he's parking the car and she left him to it, and from what I know of Joe that's probably wise of her.

I don't see any more money changing hands after the wager that went in favour of Phyllis, but as Richard and I make the circuit of the hall I do see a number of surprised looks from various hospital staff and hear, "Didn't I tell you?" from several more. Everyone we greet seems genuinely pleased for us, and every time we are wished happiness Richard seems to stand taller, his smile growing wider. My heart is fit to burst with love and pride.

In short order the bride and groom are announced by Timothy Grey ("Presenting, for the very first time, the Honourable Laurence and Amelia Cruikshank Grey"). Richard snickers quietly at the mention of the bride's maiden name. My Gaelic isn't on level with his, but I'm pretty sure I get it.*

"Does that mean what I think it means?" I ask. He nods, squeezes my shoulder in warning and averts his eyes lest we both burst into hysterical laughter.

We are seated for dinner with Phyllis and Joe, Matthew and Mary, and a young man of their acquaintance called Charles Blake. He is an authority with the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs who moonlights as a singer and, I'm told, will be providing the music this evening. The meal is unexpectedly good, the wine excellent, but then I suppose that shouldn't surprise me; I know from speaking with him at the hospital that Dickie refused to allow Amelia's parents to pay for dinner, finding their tastes unacceptably _common_. For all that he isn't, it cannot be said that Dickie Grey is inhospitable.

Our table is on an angle towards the head table, so that during dinner it isn't difficult to hear snatches of conversation from amongst the wedding party. Sure enough, we've not made it through the salad yet when Larry starts in, telling his groomsmen what he's spent on the honeymoon and Amelia's rings and the headache it's causing him to take time off of work. Only a few minutes into the main course Richard and I decide we'll have to take the drinking in turns or risk alcohol poisoning. _I, me, myself, mine …_ it's a good job the meal is over in forty minutes or we'd have been pickled where we sat.

To all appearances Richard is enjoying himself, but I can tell by the slightly glassy look in his eyes and the way he tugs at his shirt collar beneath the knot of his bow tie that he's reaching his limit. During the seemingly endless rounds of speeches I reach for his hand beneath the table and he wraps his fingers around mine.

Mercifully, the speech-making ends shortly thereafter and Charles Blake bids our table a pleasant evening as he goes to confer with the house band. I seize the opportunity to pop to the loo and touch up my lipstick, and when I return the bride and groom are in the midst of their first dance. _What a pity they're so shallow,_ I think. _They do make a pretty picture._ Still, I can't shake the feeling that the whole thing is a mockery of the institution of marriage.

When the floor opens up I see Matthew offer his hand to Mary, who blushes prettily as she follows him. Her star has risen considerably in my eyes this weekend as I've watched her interact with him. She is so _different_ to the distant, entitled, icy beauty I'd known her to be. And isn't that exactly what love does, when it's genuine: it turns us into better versions of ourselves. I realise I've said it before: Mary is not the one I'd have chosen for my son. But I cannot argue against the match when I see the way each brings out the best in the other. The song they're dancing to articulates it perfectly:

 _Oh, you can't make yourself stop dreaming  
Who you're dreaming of  
If it's who you love  
Then it's who you love¹_

Richard goes to the bar to refresh our drinks and Matthew asks me to dance with him.

"I suppose we ought to get some practise in before your wedding, hmm?" I tell him as we move about the floor. "Do you know I don't believe we've danced together since your commencement day at Eton."

He grins, looking like his father. "So long as you promise not to cry this time," he teases.

"Just you wait until you've got a little girl, then you'll understand. No, but … I think I can just about manage to hold it together this time. On your wedding day, however, all bets are off."

"On that subject … do you think Richard would be my best man?" Matthew asks. Over my shoulder I see Richard dancing with Mary, the pair of them engrossed in conversation.

"Oh, lad, I think that would set him up for life! Is that what the two of you talked about last night?"

The most curious look passes across his face. "Ah, no. Not exactly." He pauses thoughtfully. "You know, he's absolutely mad about you, Mother. Every bit as much as Dad was."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Yes, he did, but he needn't have done. You bring out the best in one another. Dad would be pleased."

If we were home I'd be ruffling his hair for that. Instead I smile, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. "I know I took the long way round to it, but I'm glad I finally did as he asked. What I have with Richard … Matthew, that's what I want for you. And I've known for years — long before you did — that you loved Mary in that way but I'll confess I worried for awhile that it was one-sided. But I can see, after this weekend, that she feels the same. I'm sorry I didn't trust your judgment, son. I should have done."

He grins and, shaking his head, kisses me on the cheek. "I love you, Mother," is all he says.

"I love you more. Go and dance with that fiancée of yours, hmm?" I turn to see that Richard is dancing with Phyllis now, and while I want him for myself it pleases me that he seems to have got a second wind. I'm prepared to sit down for a moment until he's free, but Dickie catches my attention.

"Will you indulge an old fool?" he asks. As he is the one who invited us, I can't in good conscience say no.

I'm not sure what to say to him; he was aware that both Richard and I would be attending, but not that we are _together_. But I don't want to seem uncharitable.

I settle for small talk. "Dinner was lovely, and Amelia makes a beautiful bride."

He smiles indulgently. "Isobel, it's alright. I know you don't care for her." Lowering his voice he confesses, "Neither do I." This makes me smile, and I have to stifle a laugh. "So, you and Clarkson, eh?"

I study the floorboards. "I was going to tell you personally, I just … didn't know how, I suppose." _Why am I grovelling? It's not like we were ever together._

"I'd ask if he makes you happy, but it's written all over your face."

"That he does. I think we're the poster children for _one never knows._ Friends for ages and then one day the lightbulb went on. It's the last thing I expected and the best thing that could've happened."

He smiles again, albeit somewhat sadly. "Then I'm pleased for the both of you. I should like to have been the one to make you so happy …"

He is interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in?" Richard asks, and I can't help it: my face lights up at the sight of him.

"Please," Dickie says. He extends his hand to Richard. "The better man won, Clarkson. Take care of her, eh?"

Richard shakes his hand heartily and claps him on the back. "I appreciate you saying that, man. It means a great deal. And believe me, I know I've fallen on my feet with this one." Our eyes meet and I'm taken aback by the adoration I see shining in those fathomless blue depths.

Before he walks away, I want to tell Dickie one last thing. "You know, you're only past it when you decide to be. I should take note of the way Prudence Shackleton looks at you. Perhaps you'll be the one with news to share by the next board meeting, hmm?"

Dickie raises an eyebrow. "Prudence. Really?"

It's Richard who nods in answer, and I hide my smirk behind my hand.

"Something to think about," I add, and Dickie answers with a wave of his hand as he spies the very Chairwoman of the board of directors of whom we were just speaking. They're old friends and she's lovely, a widow who just might be ready for companionship again. I'll admit it: I do love playing matchmaker, and I think those two are particularly well suited to one another.

"Well played, Dr. Crawley," Richard grins, taking me into his arms, and as an afterthought, "May I have this dance?"

"I was beginning to think you'd never ask, Dr. Clarkson," I tease, batting my eyes at him. A pause as we settle against one another, and then, "Sorry about that."

He frowns. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"You're not cross with me for dancing with Dickie then?"

He chuffs a laugh. "I know who you're going home with," he whispers hotly. My stomach tightens in response and the hand that was resting on his shoulder moves to the nape of his neck. He then adds, "It was good of him to say what he did. I'll allow that I may have misjudged him. He's not altogether rotten, as it turns out."

"I don't think I heard you properly. Did you just say that Dickie Grey is a decent bloke?" I feign shock, tapping the end of his nose playfully.

"Easy now. I wouldn't go that far. As long as he knows you're spoken for, I'd say we're alright." He smooths his hand over my back, resting his forehead against mine.

 _"'Spoken for,'_ eh? Well then, Major, so are you." I actually love it that he's acting territorial, but I have to tease.

"I reckon that makes me the luckiest man alive," he replies, all sincerity. It's completely disarming when he does this, and he does it with regularity.

For a song or two we are caught up in the atmosphere. Richard dances like he does everything else, with grace and gentility and a hint of the devil in him that's almost imperceptible unless one knows what to look for. Once or twice his lips come so close to mine that I can feel the moist heat of his breath, but he doesn't kiss me. His fingertips dance along my spine. He knows exactly where I am most sensitive and focuses his attention on those places, and to anyone else it would simply look as though he were holding me close, but every touch leaves me longing for more.

I'm grateful for it when the band begin to play a faster song. The younger ones can keep up with it, but I take Richard's hand and pull us to the perimeter of the floor. It's now, without the distraction of movement, that I start to listen to the words of the songs being played. And perhaps it makes me soft, and it definitely makes me feel like a lovesick young thing, but I begin to find _us_ in snatches of lyric.

 _Heart still beating but it's not working  
It's like a million dollar phone that you just can't ring  
I reach out trying to love but I feel nothing  
Yeah, my heart is numb  
But with you, I feel again  
Yeah with you, I can feel again²_

The song couldn't be more joyous, and I know it's going to become a new favourite, but the truth of it causes my chest to ache with sobs I fight to contain. That was _me;_ walking dead for twenty years, living entirely on past love. And then I met Richard and, though it's taken fifteen years and I've still got far to go, I began gradually to feel again, and to discover that love the second time around can be just as powerful as it was in the beginning.

We remain off to the side of the dance floor, Richard standing behind me, and when the next song begins I feel his hands on my hips, pulling me back against him as he whispers the words in my ear:

 _So I won't hesitate no more, no more  
It cannot wait I'm sure  
There's no need to complicate  
Our time is short  
This is our fate, I'm yours³_

 _"I'm yours."_ The words I'm always saying to him are coming back to me now, and they sound _so_ sweet. He is wonderfully warm and I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back as he breathes. He turns me to face him, still holding my hips as I wind my arms round his neck. Our eyes meet as we begin to sway together without moving from our spots. I watch as he traces the shape of my lips with his eyes and when I gasp he grins. I bury my face in his neck. He smells of Scotch and dark chocolate and Acqua di Gio and I ache to find out if I can taste the same combination on his skin. I realise that I can feel his heart beating against my own and the sob I've been choking back all evening breaks free.

He feels it. "Are you alright, darling?" It's loud in the room so he speaks right into my ear, which doesn't help me keep my thoughts from straying.

I nod, cupping my hand around his ear. "I could do with a bit of fresh air," I tell him, and he leads me by the hand to a door that exits out to the conservatory. We can hear the music from here as well as if we were still inside.

"Shall we sit down?" He indicates a bench beside the brick pathway, but I shake my head, leaning back against the wall and fixing my gaze on him. I watch as comprehension dawns and he leans in, bracing his forearm on the wall above my head. And then his lips are on mine: pressing, insistent, opening my mouth with his tongue. His free hand rests on the side of my neck, his thumb caressing the pulse point. We kiss until we're breathless, and when we break apart he lingers, gasping against my mouth.

"Beautiful," he breathes, touching the lace neckline of my dress, brushing his fingertips back and forth over a particularly sensitive spot in the hollow of my collarbone.

 _I want your mouth. Right. There._ I think, my eyes slipping shut.

"Do you now?" His eyes twinkle.

"Did I just _say_ that?" I ask, mildly embarrassed.

"Well, it was soundless, but I could read your lips." His expression is one of pure amusement and he makes sure I'm watching as he lowers his lips to _that_ spot and then stops just short, breathing against the skin.

"Richard, _please,"_ I moan and _finally_ he kisses me, sucking gently, tracing circles with the tip of his tongue. My hands find his hips and pull him to me as my back arches towards him. I can feel the hard male form of him straining against the front of his trousers and it's clear that we've either got to stop immediately or leave before things go too far. Fortunately he says something first because I can't think straight.

"Easy, beauty," he murmurs, taking my hands in his. "We've got all night." He wraps his arms around me and we move slowly to the fragments of song drifting through the open doors.

 _You know the things that I am afraid of  
I'm not afraid to tell  
And if we ever leave a legacy  
It's that we loved each other well  
Cause I've seen the shadows of so many people  
Trying on the treasures of youth  
But a road that's fancy and fast  
Ends in a fatal crash  
And I'm glad we got off  
To tell you the truth⁴_

Now the tears break free, streaming down my cheeks at the sentiments expressed. He has learned that my tears are often simply the overflow of feeling so much, so strongly after so long alone. Instead of panicking; indeed, instead of speaking a word, he simply kisses them away, and only once my eyes are dry does he ask, "What are you feeling?"

"Happy," is the first thing that comes to mind. "I know it's odd to hear me say that while I'm crying, but there are so many little things, like the way you whispered, 'I'm yours,' to me, and feeling our hearts beating together while we were dancing, and knowing that you wore that suit for me and picked out the tie to go with my dress. And all this talk of weddings lately — this one's a sham, but still it's been such good fun — I avoided all of this for so long, and now suddenly it's all around us … and I'm not afraid at all anymore."

He kneels before me. "I'm so glad to hear you say that," he says. By the way his brow furrows I know that he's weighing his words very carefully, and there's a long pause as he reaches into one of the pockets inside of his jacket. "Because I've been carrying this around with me for months now, thinking I'd know when the time was right. But I've been advised recently that there really isn't any such thing as a _wrong_ time, and that if I were to ask you, you'd say yes. In fact I understand that you've entertained the notion of just asking me yourself …"

He produces a small, squarish black velvet box, opening it to reveal a beautiful diamond solitaire. My hands come up to cover my mouth. _He's going to propose. He's going to propose!_

"I know that I tried this once and buggered it up and you've been most gracious to admit to knowing me after that fiasco …" I can't help but giggle at this before he continues, "Whether or not we're married is inconsequential. I'm going to love you irrespective of whether a piece of paper says I've the legal right to do so. All the same … I thought I knew love. I thought I'd reached the pinnacle a very long time ago and that I'd have to live on what had been for the rest of my life. Then I met you … and realised I'd never known anyone who could get my blood up faster!" He grins up at me.

"Honestly," I huff, affecting a roll of my eyes and giving a playful shove to his shoulder.

"I met you," he says, his eyes gone dark and serious, "and realised that I had to throw away every notion I'd ever had about what love was. You … you _are_ love. It drives everything you do, every word you say, every decision you take. I've never known anyone like you. You loved me as a friend, and you haven't even got to say it for me to know you love me now. And I'd be pleased to go on as we are for the rest of our lives, but it would be even better if we did so as husband and wife. Isobel, will you marry me?"

I nod at first, not trusting my voice, and reach for his hands. "Yes, Richard. Yes, of course, I'll marry you! Come here, my love. Come here!" I help him to his feet and throw my arms around him. He tucks his head in against my neck (I _knew_ that wearing my hair this way was the right decision!) and just holds on. I feel his body trembling and realise that the possibility of rejection was a very real fear for him. "Oh, darling," I croon, "I want this more than anything. Beautiful man … I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you. You love me so well." I'm not entirely sure what I say to him, but I continue to whisper _I love you_ in all of its iterations until he stills and, looking up, takes the ring from its box.

Lifting my left hand to his lips, he kisses the third finger. I feel the cool metal against my skin and think, _That's the last time it'll ever be cold._ I can't take my eyes off the ring. It's beautiful, but it's the image of _his ring_ on _my hand_ that holds me in thrall. "You've been my husband … in _here …"_ I take his hand and press it to my heart, "for such a long time now."

"Dance with me," he says. "Right here. Just us." I recognise the song that begins to play and understand the meaning of his request. I am powerless to do anything but nod, wishing I could brand the image — _the feeling_ — of Richard taking me in his arms onto the backs of my eyes and into my skin for eternity.

 _You say you want  
Diamonds on a ring of gold  
You say you want  
Your story to remain untold_

 _But all the promises we make_  
 _From the cradle to the grave_  
 _When all I want is you⁵_

This is a favourite of his, and I've come home from work a time or two to find him playing it on his guitar along with the radio, singing quietly. He sings it now, softly, breathily against my ear, and I understand that it was _always_ for me.

We linger outside past the amber and salmon and indigo of sunset until the first stars emerge: dancing, kissing, revelling in the secret that all too soon will not be ours alone anymore. When the sun disappears the temperature drops and I begin to shiver.

"I think we've done our bit, love," I tell him. "Will you take me home now?"

"Oh, thank God," he sighs, sagging against the wall in relief.

Grinning, I lean in and smooth my palm across his forehead. "It hasn't been as bad as all that, has it?"

"No, no, not at all. Aside from the lawfully wedded imbeciles in there it's been a good time. And _this_ bit, knowing that you're going to be my wife …" he shakes his head, unable to condense his thoughts into words. He shrugs, then shares a very private look with me. "All I want is you." I stop for a long moment to gaze at him, creating for myself an indelible imprint of the man who holds my heart, backlit by the moon on the night he asked me for forever.

 **oOo**

We venture back into the ballroom to say our goodbyes, still riding high on the exhilaration of the proposal.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," Matthew says.

In answer I show him the ring. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?" I can't hide the joy from my face, from my voice.

"Anything like _exactly how long you've been waiting for it?"_ He smiles with his eyes, does my son. It seems all of the men I love have that in common. "Congratulations, Mother. There's nobody more deserving than you."

"We'll wait, obviously, until after your wedding. I wouldn't do anything to divert the focus away from you and Mary—"

He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Mother. You and Richard should get married whenever and wherever you want. I think you've already waited long enough, hmm?"

 _How did I have a hand in raising a human being of this calibre?_ I smooth my hand over his cheek. "We'll work out the details another day. For now we're going to call it a night. Will I see you in the morning?"

"We'll say goodbye before we set off. Perhaps we can all meet up for dinner later in the week to celebrate properly?"

"We'd like that."

I hear him congratulate Richard ("What did I tell you, mate?") and I know that the party's still in full swing all around us, but all I can see is the ring on my finger; all I can hear is the song that's playing, and suddenly I _need_ to mark the moment with Richard. With my _fiancé._

"Darling." I tug on the sleeve of his jacket. "I know I said _'let's go,'_ but … shall we have one more dance?"

He hears the song and understands and excuses himself from saying goodbye to Joe and Phyllis to draw me into his arms one last time.

 _Everyday, it seems a little closer, going faster than a roller coaster  
A love like yours would surely come my way  
Everyday, it seems a little faster  
All my friends, they say, 'Go on up and ask her'  
A love like yours would surely come my way_

 _Everyday it seems a little stronger, everyday it lasts a little longer  
Come what may, do you ever long for true love from me?⁶_

The world around us fades away like a photograph blurred round the edges, and it doesn't matter that we're in a hall filled with people and it's somebody else's wedding reception. All there is, is my love and I: his beautiful eyes and playful smile, his warm hands spanning my waist and pressing me close, and this perfect song, penned when we were children, that seems to have been written just for us _._

He is still holding me when it ends, and he catches my chin in his hand and kisses me tenderly, right there in plain view. As we turn to leave I realise that Matthew and Mary, Phyllis and Joe, Dickie, Larry and Timothy were watching. I approach Larry, flanked by his father and brother on one side and his bride (engrossed in conversation with her maid of honour) on the other, to offer congratulations. I see the moment he notices I'm wearing Richard's ring, and his acknowledgment draws Dickie's eyes to it as well. My heart begins to pound as I imagine the vitriol that will burst forth from Larry's mouth at any second. And then something extraordinary happens. Dickie locks eyes with his son with an expression that cannot be mistaken for anything but contempt, throwing down the gauntlet without uttering a word. _Try anything, you uncivilised little shit,_ his eyes say, _and you're cut off from the trust fund. You can kiss your inheritance goodbye._

Shaken, and with a look of abject fear on his face, Larry shifts his attention from his father to us. "Dr. Crawley, Dr. Clarkson, so good of you to come. You're not headed back to the city tonight are you?"

I stand speechless until Richard's elbow jabs me in the ribs. "Oh, ah … no. We've a … we're staying nearby, but it's time we called it an evening. Congratulations, Larry. My best to you and Amelia. Truly."

I haven't the words with which to thank Dickie, not now, gobsmacked as I am by the full spectrum of this evening's turn of events. I make a mental note and perhaps an offhanded remark to Richard as we walk to the car to remind me to send an email later. He mumbles his assent, I think, but when I find myself pushed up against the passenger door of the Rover a moment later, Richard nipping at my lips, all capacity for conscious thought flies out the window.

 **oOo**

His hand is on my thigh as he drives us home, his thumb tracing circles on my bare skin where the hem of my dress ends. I don't know that it's wise to flirt openly with the operator of a motor vehicle, so I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes and allow myself to just _feel._ And it's a good job we're home in under five minutes, because his touch has opened the floodgates. I fumble the key in the lock, distracted by the kisses he is lavishing on the back of my neck. I get the door open and pull him inside, and as soon as it's shut behind us I push him against it, kissing him hard. His hand slides up my thigh, beneath the skirt of my dress to my bum, pulling me flush against his body.

"Good God, woman, where are your knickers?" he gasps when he encounters far more skin than he anticipated. I can't help giggling.

"Upstairs," I tell him, tugging him in the general direction of our bedroom.

"You've left them _upstairs?"_ He nearly chokes, and now I'm laughing too hard to breathe.

"Just … just come with me. You'll see soon enough." I am pressed against the wall of the stairwell several times before we make it to the bedroom, his hot mouth roving over my lips and throat and collarbones. Once inside I push his jacket off his shoulders and open his shirt buttons as he toes off his shoes and socks and dispenses with his tie. When at last I've got him down to just his shorts, I turn my back to him. "Unzip me?"

He takes great pleasure in the fact that we find ourselves stood in front of the full-length mirror, and as he works down the zip with painstaking slowness I can see his eyes flit between the skin he's revealing and our reflection. The dress falls away and he kneels to help me step out of it. And that's when he discovers just how little there is to my knickers. Lots of lovely lace detailing in front, satiny panels on the sides, a small patch of lace above my tailbone where the sides meet and then … well, not very much of anything, really. I'll never forget the hammering of my heart as I made that purchase. But there weren't a great many alternatives that would have created a smooth silhouette under the dress. Under his gaze now, however, I start to wonder whether it was an absurd choice.

Just when I begin to squirm, he pulls me to him, his hands cupping my bum. "I don't know what you call these, but I love them." Pressing his face to my belly, he kisses his way across the waistband from one hipbone to the other and works his way upward over my ribs, his tongue tracing the band of my bra as he rises to his feet. Reaching round to the clasp in back he asks me, "Shall I?"

"Please," I whisper, my knees feeling weak. We have been together like this enough times now that one would think I'd be accustomed to the experience of baring myself to him. The truth, however, is that the body beneath the LaPerla lingerie is sixty years old and has not been immune to the effects of gravity or the ravages of time.

"I can hear you thinking, you know," he tells me, breaking through my reverie. I might have known that his uncanny knack for reading my thoughts would extend to these sorts as well.

When I don't answer straightaway he turns me toward the mirror again, now nude except for the aforementioned knickers. I can see his image reflected along with my own, and I watch his eyes on my body — those eyes that betray every thought, every emotion. They reveal so much to me now: concern, admiration, appreciation, love. _Desire._ I am wanted. He _wants_ me! And I know what you're thinking: _Right, you silly cow, I should think so; he's just asked you to marry him!_ But I doubt there will ever come a day when that knowledge doesn't make my heart pound.

"I want you to see what I see," he says, his brogue thick. He moves to stand close behind me, the heat of his naked chest suffusing into my back. Reaching out, he wraps an arm over my shoulder, resting the palm of his hand on my breastbone. I take a small step back so that his chest and my back are touching.

"I see us," I tell him, working a hand up behind me so that I can touch his cheek. "Together. We make a pretty picture, you and I."

He grins. "Yes, we do. I used to dream about this, you know. The way you would feel in my arms. The way we'd fit together."

I turn my head to look at him, _really_ look at him so that our eyes meet in earnest and not in the mirror. "So did I," I murmur, kissing the line of his jaw.

"The most vivid of those dreams pales in comparison to the real thing," he whispers against the shell of my ear. "But I want you to see _yourself_ the way I see you. Look at you, your body. The way you move. You were _so_ beautiful tonight. So elegant, Isobel. You always are."

I lean back against him, chuckling. _"'Elegant.'_ Richard, I think love has coloured your perception of me." I still haven't worked out how to accept compliments from him. But I hope I've not embarrassed him, either. He takes a long time to warm to people, and I never, ever want to shut him down. Bearing that in mind, I am quick to add, "But I love the way you think, sweetheart."

True to form he takes my deflection in stride, showing his agitation with a roll of his eyes even as his hands skim over my shoulders. "The point, if I may, is that I don't simply think you're beautiful because you're the woman who's with me. I love _you,_ Isobel. You have a beauty all your own." I watch in the mirror as he lowers his head to brush his lips against the curve where my neck and shoulder meet. I shiver in anticipation of the contact. He continues, "You're strong and somehow delicate at the same time. Your lines are like a dancer's." His hand caresses the length of my arm, holding it out as if to illustrate his point. "And you have the most remarkable skin. You look as though you soak up every ray of sunshine in the world and radiate it back, do you know that?"

Giggling, I bring his arms around my waist, wrapping my own on top of his. "I'm not laughing at you," I explain, "I just love the things you notice. It's a wondrous thing to be admired. Strange, but wondrous."

"Why, because you were so long without it?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

I nod.

"I've wanted you from the moment we met, Isobel," he rasps. Warmth blossoms at the base of my spine in response to his words, travelling upwards, outwards until it becomes a dull throbbing ache deep inside. "You're perfect. You are absolutely perfect, sweet girl, inside and out."

"Dozy beggar," I murmur, turning to face him. He has destroyed my argument, I realise with a grin. I never dreamt that I'd be in this position, standing naked in front of the mirror in the arms of a _beautiful_ (equally unclothed) man whom I love. Who loves me. Who has been the husband of my heart for so long now, and who will soon be mine in name and in law. Taking his face in my hands, I pepper it with kisses — his cheeks and brow and eyelids and the evening stubble that looks irresistibly sexy even as it defoliates my lips.

I _love_ this man. I love every last little bit of him, and if that makes me giddy, if it makes me foolish, if it seems out of place for the battle-hardened woman who stood on her own for two decades, then a fool I shall happily be. And if the notion of so much physicality between two oldish people seems implausible, know this: I'd have thought so myself until it happened to me. And this from someone who has never been much concerned with propriety. It turns out I'm even less so as time goes by.

In some ways it's as if I'm twenty years old again. Everything I used to feel with Reg, I now feel with Richard, right down to the sense of urgency that undergirds it all. The intensity with which we love each other is rooted in the way we can feel time slipping away from us. I can only speak for myself with respect to outliving my spouse, but I've lived for years with certain regrets. If only I had known how short Reg and I were on time, I'd have stayed up all night long every night talking with him. I'd have lain on his chest and memorialised every beat of his heart. I'd have kissed him until my lips smarted, and _yes_ … I'd have made love until neither of us could stand up straight. I have a second chance to get it right, and you'd better believe I'm going to take it. They don't call these the "golden years" for nothing.

I manage to turn in Richard's arms so that I am facing the mirror once again. I'm just in time to catch his eyes, dark with desire, as they alight on the reflection of my breasts. I have to fight against letting my own eyes drift shut in the midst of the waiting. The _wanting._ He's going to do it, I know that he will. And I want to see it, to see _him_ seeing it, when it happens.

His hands are warm, trailing fire as they smooth over the sides of my ribs and I find I'm pleading with him in my head. _Touch me … anywhere, everywhere._ He brushes the pads of his fingers over the flesh of my breasts and I gasp. _More._ I watch as my mouth forms the soundless entreaty.

I'm not the only one watching. "Beauty," he breathes. Never in all my wildest dreams did I imagine I could hold a man in thrall the way he seems to be. It's extraordinary. Every whispered exclamation weakens my knees, to say nothing of my resolve.

I turn my head as the weight of my breasts settles in his palms, seeking the nearest patch of skin and connecting with his jawbone, just beneath his ear. The tip of my tongue darts out to taste him. "Don't stop," I whisper, fighting the urge to arch into his hands. No; I want the ache of need to last, to sear itself into my memory forevermore. I had this once, and it was all-consuming. Love, lust, fulfillment, companionship. Completion. Was I ever whole again, on my own after Reginald? I suppose it appeared that way. But love — any love that is worth having — _should_ leave us changed, shouldn't it? And given that it changes us, supposing it disappears, it _would_ leave a scar, just as the removal of muscle or bone would do. I'd had it and I'd lost it and I'd thought that was the end of me — of Isobel, the woman. But I was wrong, so magnificently wrong! And now I know love from both sides, to paraphrase a favourite song. My eyes are wide open; I will not miss a moment. It will not pass me by this time.

His fingertips flit across the peaks of my breasts. Gentle, so gentle, the ghost of a caress. The syllables, half insensible, that fall from my lips are ones I'd never give voice to anywhere but here with Richard. "Look at us, look at us!" I gasp. "Look at that!" Our eyes fixate on the image before us. The reverence with which he cradles my flesh, my heart in his hands.

"You. Are. Perfect," he tells me again, accompanied by the lightest of touches. I'm not. I am pitifully far from perfection, and always have been. A little too long-legged, a little too small-breasted. But he is not blind. For some reason — one I will never understand but for which I am forever grateful — I have what he wants. I _am_ what he wants. The quiet pleasure written on his face as he teases my nipples, the heat of his breath as he murmurs sweet vulgarities in my ear.

There is much I want to say to him but I am lost, drowning in sensation. I feel, and feel, and _feel,_ and it's all too much and it'll never be enough. He skims his palm downward, over my stomach, swirling the tips of his fingers in tantalizing circles that cause my breath to quicken and the muscles to twitch. He traces the shape of my scar in benediction and for an instant I feel something altogether different from the contempt that has plagued me for twenty-one years. I feel … I feel almost _grateful_ for its presence. Resting the warmth of his palm there firmly, he sweetly kisses the back of my neck and I nod. Words would be superfluous now. Even if the evening hadn't unfolded the way it's done, he has as good as pledged his devotion to me for the rest of our lives with one gesture, and he doesn't even yet realise the magnitude of his acceptance.

Pressing his knee into the back of my own, he nudges my legs apart as his hand continues its journey. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of my knickers, his other arm wrapping tightly around my breasts. I see him smile as his middle finger starts to move, tapping lightly on the little bundle of nerves at my centre. "Isobel, I am so very much in love with you." He says it as though it's been the case for such a long time that it's embedded in his skin, ingrained in every fibre of his being. He parts my folds, looking up at me in wonder. "You feel so good, so _smooth."_

At his urging I ease the last of my undergarments off, biting my lip as I await his discovery of the last little surprise I have for him this evening. I can't decide whether to watch the mirror or the movement of his hands on my body, so my eyes flit from one to the other. I see it when he gasps. "I _love_ you bare," he says in answer to the question I cannot ask. He cups the sensitised flesh to illustrate his approval and my desire for him slicks his fingertips. "Warm and soft and wonderful," he breathes.

"It's not too much then?" I don't know how I'm conversing with him teasing the way he is, tracing circles ever closer to where I need him and then moving away.

"Are you kidding? It's _incredible,_ love. But the real question is … do _you_ like it?" The tip of his finger _just_ enters me and he stills, awaiting my answer.

He is cruel sometimes. He isn't of course, but he plays at it when we're together this way. I fight for breath, suddenly feeling the edge rise up, finding myself perilously close. I turn my head to bite his earlobe, muttering an imprecation that makes him laugh. "Jesus," I moan, "yes. I feel you _so_ much more like this."

"What do you want, my love?" he whispers, holding me there.

"I want you inside me." My cheeks burn as I say the words. He slips his finger all the way into me and then adds another, pressing up.

"Like this?"

I groan in frustration. "I want _you._ Please, Richard."

Loosening his hold on me, he turns me toward him. "Put your arms around my neck," he tells me. I do and he lifts me, his hands under my bum, and carries me to our bed. I can do nothing but watch as he lays me down in the centre of it. His hand slides under my head to cradle it as he plumps the pillow. With the same tenderness he lifts my hips, placing pillows beneath them.

"Let me?" he whispers, gliding his palms over the insides of my thighs. I nod, my knees falling to the sides, and he lifts each of my feet, running the pads of his thumbs over the arches before placing them flat against the mattress.

"Darling." I shiver as I watch him kneel between my legs, as he lowers his body to meet mine. His lower lip quivers as he catches me gazing at his mouth. I cannot resist running the backs of my fingers over his stubble as our lips meet. Catching his petulant bottom lip between my teeth I nip him gently, soothing the sting with a flick of my tongue. He moans into my mouth and the intimacy — _I'm swallowing the sound of him!_ — rends my heart. That small part of him will remain a part of me forever now. Tears begin to well up in the corners of my eyes, when suddenly I feel his fingers opening me, gathering wetness, preparing to take me to the edge once again. His mouth moves away from mine and I whimper at the loss until I hear him, feel his warm moist breath in my ear.

"Hush, my beauty." He takes my earlobe between his teeth, swirling his tongue around it as his fingers move below, in and out, drawing senseless circles, both of us enjoying the absence of impediment between him and my flesh. Now his mouth is on the move again, nibbling at the pulse in my throat as my head falls back. I shall have to be mindful of what I wear for the next several days, as I know by the way he sucks at my collarbones that I will bear his brand. The thought of that exhilarates, hot-cold flames running the length of my spine and then …

Then he is at my breasts, his kisses sweetly savage, drawing deeply as his thumb taps out a matching rhythm farther down. He lingers here, knows how I need it, kissing and suckling until my nipples throb in time with the pang that originates from a depth only he can reach.

" _Richard,"_ I plead. My fingers twist in his hair, the nails scratching at his scalp. His mouth trails downward still, long sucking kisses to my abdomen, to the places where my thighs and pelvis meet.

Unable to withstand it any longer I reach up for him, wrapping my arms around his back to draw him down to me. As I kiss him needfully my hands smooth over his back, his buttocks. Grasping his hips I press my own against him. "Richard," I beseech him again, "I _want_ you."

He takes my hand in his, drawing it between our bodies, and raises my knees as he kneels between them. "You've got me," he breathes as I take the length of him in hand, guiding him to me. He pushes into me in one movement, rasping out a singular expression of wonderment when he can go no deeper:

"Together."

I sob at the naked vulnerability he displays before me, _for_ me. My hands smooth across his back, his sides. _This is for you as much as it is for me,_ I need him to know. "I love you, I love you!" I cry. "So _full._ "

He bends to kiss my breasts again; my hands cradle his bum. He begins to move with slow deliberation, flexing his hips, rolling into me, deep, so deep, so deep. "Do you want me to touch you?" he asks, and at first I think, _What a strange time to be asking._

I shake my head and smile as comprehension dawns, pressing my hand to his heart. "I just want to feel you move." There is no end game here, no maddening race to conclusion. He glides his hands up my arms until my own hands are splayed on the pillow, one on either side of my head, and wraps our fingers tightly together. All of time, every moment; birth and death and agony and joy and twenty years of endless nights were all for the purpose of delivering us _here._

His pace is marvellously, agonisingly unhurried so that, were it not for our ages, we could last all night. I cry out when he leans up and away from me, grieving the loss of his heat until he lifts my hips. The angle changes, pressure building so unexpectedly that in seconds I am coming; breathless, broken, blind and shattered. And all the while he gives me what I asked for, gasping and breathing my name and God's and moving, moving, always moving.

Laughter bubbles up from deep within me, joy that resides in the same location as that great insatiable ache. I try for an explanation but words fail me, and the irony strikes him as hilarious. _Me, speechless. Will wonders never cease?_

He dips his head down to kiss me and his hot mouth rests, open, where my heart beats beneath flushed skin. My body continues to squeeze him even as he pauses for breath. "Isobel, that feels …" Now _he_ is at a loss for words and it makes me giggle.

"I know, I know," I tell him, planting kisses in his hair. "God … I'm _so_ sensitive!" I find myself panting as he grinds his pubic bone into me at the bottom of each thrust.

"Is that a good thing?" he grunts. Conversation is becoming a tricky business.

Arching my body up to meet him I cover his mouth with my own. "It's the _best_ thing," I tell him after a dizzying kiss.

"Yeah?" He grins, and leans down to kiss the tip of my nose.

"Yeah," I whisper, grasping his bum, bringing him right against me, and then, " _Christ,_ Richard!" as he rolls his hips sharply upward.

Mischief flashes across his eyes as laughter rumbles through his chest, wonderful and melodious. "All bravado aside," he pants, "I can't last much longer, love. You've done me right and proper." His words call to mind that lovely song we danced to earlier.**

"The cheek," I demur, suddenly bashful. It's quite a thing to get used to, and there are little niggling doubts that make their presence known from time to time. I was a far younger woman the last time sex was a regular feature, and the thought does occasionally cross my mind that I might have lost my edge. He is expertly skilled at telling those thoughts to sod off.

"My hand to God," he says.

"Yeah, well. Leave Him out of it and make love to _me,_ eh _?_ " I wink at him. _Whatever has got into me?_ I squeeze my inner muscles down on him for effect. "Come on. I want to feel you come inside me."

"Isobel Crawley! Who taught you to talk like that?" He feigns shock and we giggle. I squeeze him once more and he curses like only a true Scot can do. I never knew he had so much of the devil in him, such a playful, impish streak. He and I can do serious in our sleep, but I'd forgotten along the way how to have fun. I've never seen him show this side of himself to anyone but me. It is our secret, his and mine.

"Soon to be Clarkson," I quip, catching his lip between my teeth once more. "I love you so much, Richard," I murmur when we pause for breath. "Take me, my darling."

He bows his head as he begins to chase his own end. A fine sheen of perspiration glistens on his brow as I hold his face in my hands. Even now he doesn't speed up, preferring deeper and more measured strokes to faster. I am helpless to do anything but hold him within me and soothe him with whispers. Love is humbling for me in that way. I'm forever wanting to _do_ and _fix_ and improve things for others. Loving Richard is teaching me that the solution lies less often in doing than in simply _being._ I am enough for him just as I am.

One of the things I love best about making love is feeling him twitch and grow and pulse inside of me. It speaks to me of raw vulnerability and trust. When he is at the mercy of his body and I am the recipient of his surrender … is there any greater intimacy than that?

"Isobel!" he cries as he begins to shudder.

"Beautiful man," I breathe. "Let it come. I'm here." His entire body stiffens and then I am awash in the most glorious warmth, pulsating, blossoming deep inside of me.

"I love you," he groans, dropping his head into the crook of my neck, "I love you … I love you … ohh _God …"_

He is exhausted from all the exertion, but still he worries that his weight upon me afterwards will be unpleasant. I catch him under his arms before he can roll away and he smiles down at me.

"Don't you need to move, sweetheart?" He massages my calves, which are beginning to cramp, and lowers my legs to the mattress for me.

I shake my head. "Mm-mm, not yet. You feel _so_ good in me." That earns me a beautiful smile. He nuzzles my nose with his own and we kiss, still softly grinding together until his erection fades.

 **oOo**

In the morning I am awakened by the feel of Richard's lips tracing a path across my collarbones. I've no desire to be up yet, so I reach blindly for him, managing to make contact with the back of his neck. "'M'ere, love," I slur. "Too early." He kisses me and I can feel the smile on his lips. "'M'and lie with me."

He laughs. "How could I refuse an offer like that?"

I pretend to slug him. "Shut up and get back into bed. 'M'on, sweetheart." I crack open one eye and throw the covers back.

"Mmm-hmm," he says as he slips beneath them, "I put a ring on your finger and suddenly it's _'shut up,_ _sweetheart.'_ It's a good job I like bossy."

I giggle. "Do you? What were you doing up anyway?"

He lies on his back, reaching for me. "Fixing breakfast for the lot of us," he answers as I stretch out on top of him.

"Have you done? Really?" Suddenly I feel bad for being tetchy.

"Mmm." He nods. "Matthew and Mary were up and out the door early, someplace he wanted to show her before they head back. I couldn't well let them go without sustenance. But ours will keep. Not to worry."

I raise my head up to look at him, pressing the tip of my index finger to the tiny indentation in his chin. "I love you, you know." My stomach still flips giddily every time I say it. I never thought, I _never_ thought. My heart was a cold, dark place for so many long years and suddenly I'm finding that there's life in the old girl yet.

He reaches up to thread his fingers through my hair. "I had heard that," he teases. "I suppose you're sort of nice to have around."

"Hmm, will that bit be part of your vows?" I tease, biting at his chin.

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me roughly. "Oi," he breathes against my mouth, "I love you too."

* * *

 **¹ — "Who You Love," John Mayer & Katy Perry, from the album _Paradise Valley_ (2013).**  
 **² — "Feel Again," OneRepublic, from the album _Native_ (2013). The song that inspired the title of this fic.**  
 **³ —"I'm Yours," Jason Mraz, from the album _We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things_ (2008).**  
 **⁴ — "Power of Two," Indigo Girls, from the album _Swamp Ophelia_ (1994). I cried all day long this past Tuesday because this song is so Richobel-perfect.**  
 **⁵ — "All I Want Is You," U2, from the album _Rattle and Hum_ (1988). Also very perfect-feels tear-inducing.**  
 **⁶ — "Everyday," written by Buddy Holly and Norman Petty; appeared on the album _Buddy Holly_ in 1958. Also recorded by James Taylor for the album _That's Why I'm Here,_ released 1985. JT's is the version I imagine Julian Ovenden as Charles Blake singing.**  
 *** — _Cruikshank_ translates to mean "crooked." I read someplace that Julian Fellowes employed this surname intentionally for the woman who became Larry Grey's bride.**  
 **** — Reference to the opening lyrics of "I'm Yours:" _'Well you done done me and you bet I felt it.'_**


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